


A Brother's Touch

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-01-09 23:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 62,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12286761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: Clasping d'Artagnan's hand, Athos explained, "There's no dearer gift than a brother's touch."





	1. A Dubious Honor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts).



> This short chapter marks the start of a multi-chapter story, which is a birthday present for the wonderful AZGirl. She was kind enough to give me a list of prompts, which served as inspiration for this fic, and I'll include them at the end of this tale for anyone who's interested. AZGirl, I wish you all the best on your special day, and hope you're having a wonderful birthday! Many happy returns, my friend.

"Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero." 

\- unknown

* * *

 

Squinting against the bright sun’s glare, d’Artagnan wished for once that he had a hat to protect his eyes. Glancing enviously at the others, he noted the wide grin on Porthos’ face, while Aramis spoke animatedly, no doubt regaling his friend with stories of his latest conquest. Athos rode several feet ahead of their group alongside one of the new recruits. Based on the stiffness of the young man’s back, the trainee was less than thrilled to be sharing the lead position with their lieutenant. For some time, d’Artagnan had ridden alongside the older man, only dropping back when Athos had given a long sigh before grudgingly replacing his protégé’s company with one of their young charges so that he might impart some of his wisdom to the new recruit.

 

Their training mission would take them several days out of Paris, and the Inseparables had been assigned six men to coach and mentor. d’Artagnan had been secretly pleased at having been included, given that his own commission had been awarded only a few months prior. While he thought of himself as still new to being a Musketeer, his assignment suggested that Treville didn’t view him the same way, a fact that made the Gascon’s heart swell with unspoken pride.

 

A guffaw from Porthos drew his attention back to the two men once more, and he momentarily considered riding with them instead of maintaining his solitary position behind Athos. He discarded the idea almost at once, slowing his horse to fall back to their rear. He drifted to one side of the group of trainees, not quite behind them and not close enough to insert himself into their conversations. The men’s spirits seemed high, and he noted several grins on the recruits’ fresh faces. God, had he ever looked and acted that young, d’Artagnan wondered to himself.

 

It was true that he’d been young compared to most of those who pursued a commission with the Musketeers, but what he lacked in years, he felt he made up for in experience. His first few months with the Inseparables had made certain of that, exposing him to some of the seedier sides of Paris, and giving him a glimpse into the monarchy which few others his age had. That experience, combined with his friends’ lessons, had done much to prepare him for his commission, and he realized that it was these lessons that Treville was now taking advantage of.

 

While d’Artagnan had initially been excited about the mission, he’d seen the others’ less-than-enthusiastic expressions, suggesting that this would be more of a chore than an honor for his friends. He hadn’t understood at first, believing that it would be a pleasure to be tasked with the development of their future brothers-in-arms, until he came to realize how thankless the work was. From the moment they’d addressed the new recruits, the men had challenged their decisions, believed every order was an opportunity for discussion, and found reason to dispute the many corrections that came their way. All in all, the experience had been an exercise in rapidly diminishing patience and increasing frustration.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes flicked over to one of the recruits, a wiry man named Vieillard. Since before their departure, this particular recruit had been at the centre of everyone’s attention, with his young peers flocking to him as ducklings to their mother. Initially, the Gascon hadn’t been overly surprised, and found it quite normal for the others to gather around the more gregarious among them. As he’d continued to watch the dynamic among the new men, however, d’Artagnan had slowly begun to change his evaluation of the situation, wondering if Viellard was really a good role model for the others. There was nothing specific that the Gascon could point to, but he always had the sense when observing the other man that Viellard’s intentions were less than honorable.

 

Another round of raucous laugher came from the group of four recruits, and d’Artagnan frowned for a moment at the memory of the two men they’d had to send back to Paris the day prior. Poor Gigot had just become accustomed with the more advanced nuances of horseback riding, not having had much experience in his past life. When Athos had called on the group to move their mounts into a trot, the poor horseman had done his best to sway with the movements of the powerful beast between his legs, but to no avail, and he’d struck the ground a mere one hundred meters into their canter.

 

To add injury to insult, Gigot had landed badly and sprained his left ankle, and d’Artagnan shuddered as he recalled how quickly the damaged joint had swollen. In pain, and fearful of the idea of retaking his seat on his mount, Athos had had little choice but to order the man back to Paris, assigning one of the others to accompany him. That incident had left them evenly matched: four recruits and their four Musketeer mentors. For some unknown reason, that fact didn’t make him feel any better about their mission, and he’d been able to tell by the expressions on his friends’ faces that they shared his misgivings.

 

A piercing whistle sounded, and d’Artagnan’s gaze moved to Porthos, the large man waving one arm to encourage the recruits to speed their pace. In time with the others, the Gascon kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, easily settling into the fluid motion of a gallop. Their mounts wouldn’t be able to keep this pace up for long, but he knew that the ability to stay seated at these speeds was a critical skill for any soldier. As they raced along, he shifted his gaze to the recruits, casting his experienced eye over each man’s form and making note of any corrections he’d need to later offer.

 

As his eyes swept over Viellard, he caught a cocky grin on the man’s face, the new recruit clearly in his element on the back of the galloping steed. Shifting his gaze forward, d’Artagnan allowed himself the same enjoyment, revelling in the feeling of the wind rushing past him. His lips turned upwards at the joy of being one with the powerful horse beneath him. Ahead, he could see Athos and the others starting to slow, and he automatically adjusted the tension on his reins, already beginning to miss the euphoria of their earlier pace.

 

Before he could think on it for long, he found himself swinging uncontrollably to one side, his horse’s increased speed sufficient to upset his balance. Without conscious thought, his fingers slipped over his mount’s neck, trying but failing to get a grip there in his effort to stop his sideways motion. A second later, his horse was gone, and he felt himself strike the hard ground before tumbling head over heels for what seemed like forever. By the time he’d come to a stop, d’Artagnan was dizzy and disorientated, his mind consumed with overwhelming pain. Letting out a low groan, he felt his body growing heavier as he gave in to the welcoming call of unconsciousness.

to be continued...


	2. Bruised, not broken?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the pain of the hit registered, his knees began to buckle, but he was caught in the recruit’s strong grip as the man stepped swiftly forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful response to this story, and for helping me wish AZGirl a very happy birthday. Hope you enjoy this next part.

Athos jerked hard on his horse’s reins, alerted to the fact that something was wrong by Porthos’ shout of surprise. As his mount came to a full and abrupt stop, he swivelled in his seat and caught the end of d’Artagnan’s tumble, the young man’s body flopping limply as it’s movement halted. Athos’ brow furrowed in immediate concern, and he nudged his horse into motion, closing the gap between himself and the Gascon. Aramis and Porthos had beaten him there, and the marksman had already dismounted and knelt at the young man’s side before Athos could reach them. Stopping at Porthos’ side, he kept his eyes on d’Artagnan and Aramis as he asked, “What happened?”

 

The larger man spared his friend a quick sideways glance before firmly fixing his gaze back on the Gascon. “Not really sure,” he answered. “I didn’t even realize anything was wrong until I heard him cry out when he fell.” Porthos’ response was less than satisfactory, but Athos knew his friend would have shared all that he was able. Pushing his irritation down, he focused on the medic’s ministrations as he examined their young friend.

 

“d’Artagnan, I need you to be honest about what hurts,” Aramis said, his hands gently but efficiently moving down the Gascon’s torso.

 

His patient was squinting against the sun’s glare, but kept his eyes open despite the discomfort. Moments later, his breathing hitched as he ground out, “There.”

 

Aramis’ eyes came back to the Gascon’s face as he gently pressed once more on the spot that had elicited the earlier reaction. “Here?”

 

d’Artagnan squeezed his eyes closed for a moment and nodded, drawing a relieved breath when the medic moved his hand away. “Just bruised, I think.”

 

Aramis resumed his exam, now moving on to check the young man’s arms and legs. “Perhaps you’ll let me be the judge of that, hmm?”

 

The Gascon tried to relax as he replied, “I’m fine, Aramis. Just had the breath knocked out of me.”

 

Moments later, the medic was finished, and he leaned back on his heels as he announced, “Seems you’re right, and I agree, there’s nothing broken.”

 

d’Artagnan gingerly pushed himself up onto his elbows as he dredged up a cheeky grin for his friend. “Told you,” he said, although it was clear to the others that he was in pain given the stiff way that he held himself.

 

Aramis pushed himself to his feet and then paused to look down at the still reclining Gascon. “So, you’re just having a rest down there, are you?” His wore an amused smile, but his words carried an undertone of worry that wouldn’t be dispelled until d’Artagnan was standing.

 

Stepping forward, Porthos extended a hand which the Gascon gratefully took. While d’Artagnan was confident that he hadn’t done any major damage to himself, he was already feeling the throb of bruises and the gentle ache of overtaxed muscles, both of which would have him feeling stiff and sore for days to come. He winced as he was pulled to his feet, quickly finding his balance and releasing Porthos’ arm with a nod of thanks.

 

Now that Athos knew their friend was alright, he stepped forward to repeat his earlier question. “What happened?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face reddened as he realized that he’d fallen from his horse. It was a rare occurrence for him, and one that hadn’t happened in many years. Trying to make light of the situation, he gave a slight shrug as he replied, “I fell.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes, while Aramis’ smile widened, but it was clear from Athos’ expression that he was unimpressed. Pinning their young friend with a hard look, the older man asked, “ _Why_ did you fall?”

 

The question had a shadow of doubt crossing the Gascon’s face as he really had no idea what had unseated him. Brushing at his shirt and breeches to try and remove the dirt and grass from his tumble, he slowly moved towards his horse. The animal had come to a stop several feet away and was now grazing contentedly.

 

As d’Artagnan approached, his gaze was drawn immediately to the saddle which was clearly sitting unevenly on the horse’s back. His eyes moved to the girth strap, which was still cinched in place, but was now loose enough to allow his fingers to slide easily between it and the horse’s belly. Reaching up, he gave an experimental tug on the saddle, watching as it easily moved in place enough to explain his unexpected tumble.

 

Moving his attention back to the girth strap, he traced the line of the sturdy piece of leather, moving first down and then back up to where it attached to the saddle. There! His fingers identified something out of place, and he leaned forward to take a closer look. Several stitches were missing, and the strap barely hung in place by the few that were left. It was a rudimentary oversight and something that every new horseman was taught to look for. Feeling his face flush with shame, d’Artagnan searched his mind for an explanation of how his tack had come to be in such poor condition, and more importantly, how he’d missed it.

 

Turning back to his waiting friends, he admitted sheepishly, “The girth strap is loose.” Porthos frowned, clearly not understanding, and d’Artagnan found himself adding, “Some of the stitching has come undone.”

 

The Gascon stepped aside as the larger man moved forward to have a closer look, leaving d’Artagnan to face Aramis and Athos. While the marksman appeared empathetic, Athos’ expression conveyed a mix of disappointment and concern, leaving d’Artagnan feeling unbalanced at what such a combination might mean. They stared silently at one another for several seconds until Porthos turned to them and announced, “He’s right, that strap is barely hanging on and would definitely have worked itself loose during that last gallop.” Shifting his gaze to the Gascon, he said, “It’s a good thing we were slowing down when it shifted.”

 

Worrying his lower lip, d’Artagnan gave a nod of agreement, still embarrassed at his novice mistake. Before any more could be said, a new voice entered their conversation. “That was quite the spectacular dismount,” Viellard stated with a wide grin on his face. “And here I’d been told that you grew up around horses.”

 

The Inseparables’ expressions immediately turned sombre at the disparaging words. The comments themselves were bad enough, but to be voiced by a mere recruit made the speaker’s actions even more disrespectful. As d’Artagnan’s face flushed crimson in embarrassment and anger, Athos stepped in to diffuse the situation. “Let this be a lesson to you that no matter your experience, errors and oversights can still occur.” Turning his attention to the Gascon, the older man continued in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “To prevent any further mishaps, d’Artagnan will be examining everyone’s tack and fixing any deficiencies he finds.”

 

Athos met the Gascon’s eyes, the underlying rebuke clear, and d’Artagnan gave a curt nod in reply to indicate his understanding. Comfortable that his message had been received, the older man cast his gaze upwards for a moment to track the sun’s position. Noting that it was already late afternoon, and they would need to allow time for the Gascon to fix his saddle, he decided that they would spend the night in their current location. “Porthos and Aramis, pick a spot where we can set up our camp; Petit and Jaccoud can help. Viellard and Lebas will accompany me in collecting water and firewood.” He turned last to the Gascon, “d’Artagnan, you’ll take care of the horses. After dinner, we train.”

 

As the men dispersed, the Gascon was left standing next to his horse, the pain of his error nearly overriding the discomfort emanating from his sore flank. Although Athos had been kind with his reprimand, it had still stung, especially given that it was delivered in front of their trainees. Almost worse, though, had been the expression of disappointment on Athos’ face, and d’Artagnan hated that he’d been the one to put it there. With a long sigh, he snagged his horse’s reins and began leading the animal after the others, resolving that nothing like this would ever happen again.

* * *

With so many hands, the camp was set up quickly, with Porthos and Aramis directing their charges to collect saddlebags and unroll blankets for sleeping. Athos and his charges had been just as efficient, locating a source of water nearby and gathering enough firewood to ward off the evening’s chill until morning. d’Artagnan’s task had been the most daunting of all, with so many horses to care for while his muscles steadily stiffened from his fall.

 

Thankfully, Porthos had given him a helping hand, waiting only until Athos had departed before wading in to remove saddles and check their tack. Even Aramis had joined them, a threaded needle already in one hand as he sat down beside the Gascon’s saddle and fingered the damaged strap. d’Artagnan had attempted to protest his friends’ assistance, but neither man was willing to stop, and simply reminded him of the Musketeer motto of _all for one_. The Gascon had shaken his head, but wore a smile on his face at the men’s actions, resolving to find some way of thanking them later.

 

By the time that Athos and the others had returned, d’Artagnan was just finishing up with the last horse, having confirmed that everyone else’s tack was in good condition. At the discovery that the Gascon was nearly done, Athos raised an inquiring eyebrow at Porthos and Aramis, who were lounging against a tree in their camp. Both men cheekily met their older friend’s inquiring gaze with innocent expressions, unwilling to respond in another other way to the man’s unspoken question; Athos swallowed the sigh of irritation that rose at the knowledge that d’Artagnan had had help with his chores.

 

Pinning Porthos and Aramis with a pointed look he announced, “Since we’re already finished, we’ll have time for some sparring before we eat.” The larger man’s face fell at the thought of delaying their dinner, but he accepted Athos’ order without comment, understanding that it was his friend’s way of punishing them for having helped the Gascon.

 

Each of the Inseparables was paired with a recruit, and d’Artagnan found himself facing Viellard. Physically, they were fairly evenly matched and the Gascon found himself curious about his opponent’s sword-fighting style. Although the trainees had been at the garrison for over a month, d’Artagnan had not yet seen his partner in action. At Athos’ order to engage, the Gascon lifted his blade slightly, waiting for Viellard to make the first move. His young opponent stepped closer immediately, thrusting towards the Musketeer’s middle, forcing d’Artagnan to quickly jump back and out of the way. Another strike followed at once, which the Gascon was able to block with his sword.

 

As they traded thrusts and parries, d’Artagnan was struck by the intensity of Viellard’s attack. He was relentless, and had been forcing the Gascon to slowly, but steadily give ground to avoid being hit. But it was not skill, d’Artagnan reflected as he avoided another swipe of the other man’s blade. Where he fought with passion, and an energy fueled by the need to protect those who could not protect themselves, Vielllard lashed out seemingly without strategy, simply trying to overwhelm his opponent before skill could tip the scales against him. It demonstrated a lack of patience, and more worryingly, a lack of knowledge of sword-fighting techniques that could get someone killed.

 

Filing that piece of information away for later, d’Artagnan refocused on his opponent, determined to turn the match to his advantage. They continued to trade blows as he waited for the opportune moment to disarm the other man, spotting his chance barely a minute later. Viellard had swung his sword arm out to the side, looking to gain extra momentum and force for the hit he was about to deliver. The move had left the recruit’s body open to attack, and d’Artagnan stepped forward inside the other man’s guard, momentarily touching the tip of his blade against his opponent’s chest.

 

With their match over, the Gascon began moving back and dropping his sword, unprepared for Viellard to finish his strike. Instead of feeling the bite of sharp steel, d’Artagnan was shocked to feel a hammer-like blow to his side as the pommel of Viellard’s sword smashed into his already bruised ribs. He heard the snapping of bone as the breath flew from his lungs with a swift whoosh. As the pain of the hit registered, his knees began to buckle, but he was caught in the recruit’s strong grip as the man stepped swiftly forward.

 

To the others, it would seem as though they were merely battling for the upper hand, and the recruit took advantage of that fact as he leaned close to whisper in d’Artagnan’s ear. “I’ve heard all the rumours about you. All the missions you’ve supposedly been on, and how you saved Treville’s life to get your commission.” d’Artagnan tried to stand on his own and to push away from the other man, but Viellard simply tightened his grip as he continued. “Youngest Musketeer in history, but Athos didn’t seem too impressed with you earlier,” he spat with derision. “I bet Treville will be rethinking his decision to accept you into his command once he hears about the stupid mistake you made with your tack.”

 

d’Artagnan locked his knees and pushed hard, this time succeeding in separating himself from the recruit. Shocked, he simply stood and stared at the other man, breathing hard while he tried to ignore the sharp pain in his side that accompanied each inhale and exhale. For a heartbeat, Viellard’s face was a mask of hatred that nearly had the Gascon taking another step back in order to escape the man’s venomous countenance. A second later, the recruit’s expression shifted as Aramis called out to them.

 

“d’Artagnan, is everything alright?” the marksman asked, bringing the Gascon’s focus back to his surroundings. Aramis and his partner had stopped sparring, and both were now looking in his direction.

 

“What will Athos think when he hears you’ve been hurt again because you let your guard down while sparring?” Viellard hissed lowly.

 

Swallowing thickly as he recognized the truth in the other man’s words, he forced his voice to be steady as he replied, “Everything’s fine, Aramis. We’re just catching our breath.” The marksman’s gaze stayed locked with his for several long moments before he gave a curt nod and looked away.

 

Lifting his sword in a mock salute, Viellard said, “Thanks for the match, Musketeer.” The last word dripped with contempt, and as the man walked away, d’Artagnan was left standing alone, wondering what exactly he’d done to deserve such strong disdain.


	3. Second Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he watched the young man comply with his request, Aramis wondered if he’d end up regretting his decision to be a party to d’Artagnan’s deception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one.

d’Artagnan was lost in the soothing motions as his right arm pulled the curry comb along his horse’s flank. His left arm was snugged tightly against his side, as he did his best to stabilize the rib that he was certain had broken beneath Viellard’s earlier onslaught. As he groomed his horse, his mind replayed his match with the recruit. The words the other man had spat at him echoed unceasingly in the Gascon’s head, until it ached in time with his ribs.

 

He’d racked his brain for any memory of a moment when he might have inadvertently offended the recruit, but he was more certain than ever that he’d never even spoken to Viellard until their deployment two days prior. That knowledge brought him little comfort, however, since the hatred he’d seen in the other man’s eyes had been real – just as real as the hit he’d scored on d’Artagnan’s ribs.

 

He pulled his arm closer at the thought of that strike, cursing himself for not preventing it. While it was true that he’d expected Viellard to pull his blow once he’d been defeated, Athos would certainly chastise him for acting on that assumption by lowering his guard. Perhaps he should simply be grateful that the recruit had reversed the grip on his sword in mid-swing, preventing the blade from entering his side, which it surely would have done.

 

He’d been stunned by the unexpected blow and the pain that had followed, leaving him unable to initially resist Viellard’s hold. The words the man had whispered into his ear were just as shocking as his actions, and d’Artagnan shivered as he recalled them. Never had he heard of such a sentiment being expressed by one brother-in-arms against another. His initial instinct had been to admonish the recruit, but Viellard had skillfully planted just enough doubt to make him hold back. The result was that he had no idea why the other man had acted in such a manner, and he was left hiding his newest injury from everyone, and most especially his friends.

 

Sighing, he winced at the pull in his side. He let his right arm drop, fatigue overtaking his body despite his mind’s refusal to rest. He knew it was late, and most of the men had already turned in. When he’d expressed his desire to see to the horses before going to bed, Athos had given him a nod of understanding, and d’Artagnan thought, possibly approval. In the older man’s mind, the Gascon had made a serious error, and any extra attention given to their steeds was only right.

 

Resting his head briefly on his horse’s neck, he whispered, “If only my life was as simple as yours.” The animal nickered softly in reply as though understanding its master’s comment. The sound brought a faint smile to d’Artagnan’s lips, and he rubbed the beast’s neck fondly before pulling away and preparing himself to return to camp.

 

He walked slowly in deference to his throbbing side, each step jarring the broken rib and sending a fresh stab of pain through his flank. Gritting his teeth against the sensation of grating bones, he made a mental note to find something with which to wrap his ribs before they set out in the morning; if walking was this painful, he could only imagine how much worse riding would be.

 

As he approached the camp, he made eye contact with Porthos, the large man minutely tipping his head in greeting. Letting his eyes drift to the other side of their camp, d’Artagnan’s gaze locked with Viellard’s, the recruit assigned to stand watch with Porthos. Softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping men, the recruit advised, “Best get some sleep while you can, d’Artagnan. It wouldn’t do to nod off during your watch.” Although the words were delivered with a smile, the Gascon could see there was no mirth attached to them. Giving the recruit a curt nod of acknowledgement, he made his way to his bedroll and carefully lowered himself down.

 

On the other side of the camp, Porthos frowned at the odd words that Viellard had uttered.

* * *

Athos was concerned. Their mission should have been a relatively simple one, with the greatest dangers coming from the men themselves if they weren’t careful when handling their weapons. While training new recruits wasn’t one of his favorite past-times, he’d almost welcomed the current opportunity, seeing it as a chance for d’Artagnan to truly come into his own.

 

The young man had blossomed under the Inseparables’ tutelage, and Athos was privately proud of d’Artagnan’s accomplishments. When the Gascon had won his commission, and for such an honorable act, the older man’s heart had swelled with affection and pride the likes of which he hadn’t felt since his younger brother had been alive. It was a sobering realization, and one which he both welcomed and abhorred in equal measure, fully understanding the risks that were associated with caring for someone to such an extent. It was for this reason that he’d wanted – no, needed – d’Artagnan to shine during this mission.

 

Treville took the training of recruits very seriously, and that he’d trusted the Gascon to be part of this mission spoke volumes about the level of trust he had in the young man’s abilities. Athos knew that the Captain would be looking for a report about d’Artagnan’s conduct, and he wanted desperately to be able to provide a positive one; the Gascon’s fall the previous day could make that difficult.

 

He watched now as d’Artagnan packed his things, moving gingerly as he rolled up his blanket. The stiff way in which the young man moved made Athos’ brow furrow, wondering immediately if the Gascon had been hurt worse than he’d let on. As d’Artagnan walked towards his horse, Athos pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against, taking a moment to find Aramis before moving in the marksman’s direction.

 

Aramis was sitting by the fire, waiting for the order to move out once everyone was finished packing. He was conversing with two of the recruits, and Athos caught his eye, motioning with his head for the marksman to join him. Receiving a minute nod from the medic, Athos moved further away, waiting for his friend to join him.

 

“Good morning, Athos,” the marksman greeted with a smile, his expression quickly becoming serious at the older man’s countenance. “Is something wrong?”

 

Athos indicated d’Artagnan with a tip of his head. “Do you think he could be hurt worse than we realize?”

 

The marksman frowned as he observed the Gascon for several moments, the furrows on his brow deepening as he watched the young man struggling with his saddle. “I suppose it’s possible,” he replied slowly, his gaze still fixed on their friend. Pulling his eyes back to Athos after several seconds, he asked, “Do you want me to have another look at him?”

 

Athos looked mildly embarrassed as he replied, “Do you think he’d let you?”

 

Aramis smiled widely as he clapped his hand onto the older man’s upper arm. “Of course, he’ll let me. You know that I’m a force to be reckoned with when it comes to my friends’ health.”

 

Athos’ lips quirked upwards as he nodded. “That you are, my friend.”

 

Seeing the relief on the older man’s face, Aramis pressed for more information. “Is there anything specific that you’re worried about?”

 

Athos thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not really. He just seems exceptionally _uncomfortable_ for having suffered nothing more serious than bruises.”

 

Looking in d’Artagnan’s direction, Aramis assured the other man, “Don’t worry, if there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.”

 

“Thank you, Aramis,” Athos answered with a smile of gratitude. Squeezing the older man’s arm before releasing it, the marksman made his way towards the Gascon, catching the wince of discomfort when the young man raised his left arm.

 

“Here,” Aramis said as he took the bridle from d’Artagnan’s hands, “let me help you with that.”

 

A look of confusion crossed the Gascon’s face as the tack was pulled from his fingers. “Aramis, what are you doing?” he asked as he watched the marksman expertly place the bridle onto his horse’s head.

 

“Just lending a helping hand,” the medic replied nonchalantly as he adjusted the tack. “You seem to be moving somewhat stiffly today.”

 

d’Artagnan snorted as he replied, “We spent the night outside on the cold ground, Aramis. I’d be shocked if we’re not all a little stiff this morning.”

 

Turning his attention away from the Gascon’s horse and to the man himself, the marksman countered, “Stiffness from an uncomfortable bed is one thing, but stiffness from injury is quite something else.”

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the marksman’s words. “I’m fine, Aramis. You checked me out yesterday and said so yourself.”

 

The medic gave a slight shrug as he said, “Humour me?” He was surprised as the young man’s expression hardened.

 

“No, there’s no need and there’s no time. Athos won’t be happy if we’re delayed because of me,” d’Artagnan stated.

 

“What do you mean, because of you?” Aramis probed.

 

The Gascon huffed as he tried to explain. “You know what I mean, Aramis. We had to stop early yesterday after I fell, and I won’t be the reason that we get a late start today.” He turned with the intention to walk away, but the marksman caught his arm before he could move.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis said, pitching his voice lowly and adopting a smooth, even tone. “Athos doesn’t care if we leave a few minutes late.” The Gascon’s expression remained closed, and the marksman silently hoped the older man would forgive him for what he was about to say. “As a matter of fact, he’s the one who asked me to have another look at you.”

 

“What?” d’Artagnan asked, his expression disbelieving.

 

“It’s true.” Sensing that the Gascon was beginning to yield, Aramis continued. “So, please, just give me a few minutes to make sure nothing’s changed and we can all be on our way.”

 

d’Artagnan looked away from his friend’s beseeching gaze as he worried his lower lip. The marksman’s request was a reasonable one, but he knew what the other man would find. There was no disguising a broken rib, nor was it possible to convince the medic that he’d missed the injury during his examination the previous day. Feeling the ache in his flank, and thinking about the day of riding ahead, he relented. “Alright, Aramis, but not out here in front of everyone. And bring your bag,” the Gascon added as an afterthought.

 

Although he was confused by his friend’s requests, Aramis acceded easily, grabbing his bag of medical supplies before joining d’Artagnan where he’d moved to be away from everyone else. Sensing that the Gascon had something to disclose, he asked, “Is there anything in particular that I should look at?”

 

For a moment, it seemed that the Gascon was going to stay silent, and then he was reaching for the hem of his shirt, untucking it from his breeches to lift the fabric away from his left side. Aramis gave a wince of sympathy at the dark bruising that had developed overnight, and he placed his hand gently on its epicentre. Looking up at d’Artagnan, and receiving a nod of permission from the young man, the marksman pressed carefully with his fingers, feeling the give of the broken rib at once.

 

The Gascon gasped at the pressure and Aramis changed his touch to one of comfort, laying his palm gently over the damaged area. With empathy written all over his face, he met his friend’s eyes as he questioned, “What happened?”

 

d’Artagnan hung his head for a moment before meeting his friend’s gaze. “Sparring accident.” Aramis’ eyes narrowed dangerously, prompting the Gascon to continue. “Viellard got a lucky hit.”

 

“We must let Athos know what happened. As the highest-ranking man here, he’s responsible for everyone’s safety,” Aramis responded, letting his hand drop from the Gascon’s side.

 

“No, there’s no need for that,” d’Artagnan countered. “You know as well as I do that training accidents happen. Why make a bigger deal of it than necessary?”

 

Aramis drew back as he hardened his gaze. “d’Artagnan, learning how not to hurt someone during sparring is just as important a skill as knowing how to deliver a fatal blow in battle. Viellard must be spoken to about this, and watched to ensure this lesson is learned.” Pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, the marksman asked, “Why would you want to hide something like this?”

 

The Gascon looked extremely uncomfortable under his friend’s scrutiny, his voice soft as he replied. “I just don’t want Athos to think it was a mistake.”

 

Aramis frowned in confusion at the odd statement. “But it was a mistake, and Viellard needs correction.”

 

d’Artagnan shook his head sadly as he countered, “No, not Viellard. I don’t want Athos to think it was a mistake for me to come along.”

 

As comprehension dawned, the marksman’s face split in a soft smile. “d’Artagnan, there’s no need to worry…”

 

He was interrupted as the Gascon gripped his wrist, squeezing it tightly in desperation as he pleaded, “Please, Aramis, don’t say anything to Athos. I’m fine, and there’s really no need for him to know.” The marksman still looked unconvinced. “Aramis, please. I promise that I’ll deal with Viellard, but let me do it on my own terms.”

 

The imploring expression on d’Artagnan’s face was too much, and Aramis grudgingly nodded in assent. “Alright, but there are conditions to my silence.” The Gascon nodded eagerly, willing to agree to anything to keep his secret from Athos. “First, you let me bind those ribs, otherwise you’ll be in so much pain while we ride that I won’t need to say anything. Second, you come to me at once if you start feeling worse.”

 

“I promise,” d’Artagnan replied, relieved that his ribs would be bound, and that Athos would remain unaware of his latest mistake.

 

“I mean it, d’Artagnan,” Aramis repeated with an intense look. “Anything else happens and you have to promise you’ll come to me.”

 

“I will, Aramis; I promise,” d’Artagnan stated with all the sincerity he could muster.

 

Satisfied with his friend’s response, the medic gave a short nod. “Alright, off with that shirt so I can wrap your ribs.” As he watched the young man comply with his request, Aramis wondered if he’d end up regretting his decision to be a party to d’Artagnan’s deception.


	4. Misfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a heavy heart, he trudged back to the others, adopting a mask of indifference that he hoped would fool the men into believing that nothing was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter. Enjoy this next part!

Despite the shorter distance covered the day prior, they managed to reach their destination just after lunchtime. Knowing how close they were, Athos had pushed the men to ride through the midday meal, promising they could eat once they’d arrived. d’Artagnan was grateful when they finally stopped, the pain from his broken rib becoming nearly impossible to hide the longer they’d ridden. He was pale and trembling as he dismounted, and only a quick hand from Porthos saved him from stumbling as his feet touched the ground.

 

“You alright?” Porthos asked, his hand still firmly wrapped around the young man’s elbow. His face showed his raw concern for the Gascon, and d’Artagnan felt a flash of guilt at having deceived his friends.

 

Trying to slow his breathing and ease the pain in his side, he gave a curt nod, not trusting his voice to not give away the extreme level of his discomfort. Porthos’ frown merely deepened at the non-verbal response, letting his supporting hand linger for a few seconds longer before reluctantly letting go. “Thank you, Porthos,” d’Artagnan finally managed, his voice thin with pain. “I’m good now.”

 

The large man gave a knowing smirk, his tone tinged with fondness as he said, “No, you’re not, but I can see you’re not ready to tell me what’s wrong. I’ll be waitin’ whenever you’re ready.”

 

Porthos’ easy acceptance of his deception made d’Artagnan’s guilt flare sharply, and he found himself unable to reply due to the sudden tightness of his throat. Instead, he offered a tremulous smile, which seemed to satisfy his friend. Gently clapping the Gascon on the shoulder, Porthos led this horse away to get it settled.

 

d’Artagnan let out a careful sigh, grateful beyond measure that the large man hadn’t pushed. Thankfully, their plan was to stay at their current location for the next three days, which would allow some much-needed time for his rib to start knitting. Tucking his left arm against his side, he followed Porthos, needing to get his horse sorted before joining the others for lunch.

 

Their meal consisted of a variety of hard cheeses and dried meat, along with the last of their bread. In truth, d’Artagnan was glad to see the last of the latter item being consumed, given how hard it had gotten in the days since they’d left Paris. While the conversation flowed around him, guided mostly by Porthos, Aramis and the trainees, he kept his focus on his meal, doing his best to eat despite his flagging appetite. Normally, he didn’t mind their typical travel rations, but the constant ache in his side had all but overshadowed his hunger.

 

As he chewed another small nibble of cheese, he was surprised to see a hand appear in front of his face. He followed the arm upwards to Aramis’ face, the marksman patiently waiting for him to take the proffered cup from his hand. At d’Artagnan’s questioning eyebrow, Aramis merely said, “I thought you might need something with which to wash down your meal.”

 

He was about to shake his head and refuse, when something in the marksman’s expression shifted, pleading him to take the cup without protest. Hesitantly, he reached for it, offering a soft, “thanks” in reply. Aramis’ face broke out in a wide smile as his offering was accepted. “You should drink it all. Don’t want you to get dehydrated during training.”

 

The Gascon watched his friend’s back as the man moved away, still perplexed by the marksman’s insistence that he should drink. Carefully, he brought the cup to his lips, allowing a small amount of the liquid to pass into his mouth. The tell-tale flavour of Aramis’ pain draught assaulted him at once, and he looked up, surprised, only to find himself being watched by the medic. Aramis nodded, encouraging him to have another drink, and under the man’s careful scrutiny, d’Artagnan drank again.

 

He lowered the cup and smiled at the medic, hoping his appreciation would be understood by the other man. The marksman gave a slight dip of his chin to indicate he’d received d’Artagnan’s unspoken message, before turning his attention back to the conversation around him. Buoyed by his friend’s caring actions, the Gascon sipped at his drink, ensuring he finished every last drop.

* * *

“Why doesn’t he watch, instead? That way he can offer suggestions based on what he sees,” Porthos stated.

 

Athos’ expression turned sour as a result of the larger man’s suggestion, piquing d’Artagnan’s interest in their discussion. He’d just finished packing away his mostly uneaten lunch, and was feeling better than he had since the previous day, thanks to Aramis’ draught. Knowing that they’d be training next, he’d wandered over to where his friends were discussing the afternoon’s plans, and had arrived in time to overhear Porthos’ comments.

 

“An excellent idea, Porthos,” Aramis concurred, clearly hoping to convince Athos with his show of support for the other man’s suggestion.

 

Turning his attention away from both men, Athos let his gaze fall on their new arrival. “What do you think, d’Artagnan? Is there any reason for you to watch today’s sparring instead of participating?”

 

The Gascon was caught off guard, and he did his best to school his features into a neutral expression as he sought out first Aramis’ and then Porthos’ gazes. The marksman looked as surprised as d’Artagnan felt, and he offered a minute shrug, indicating he had no idea how the young man should respond. Shifting his gaze to Porthos, d’Artagnan saw the large man roll his eyes in frustration, a sentiment he hoped was directed at their leader rather than at him. Returning his focus to Athos, he found the older man still waiting for a reply, his piercing eyes pinned firmly on the young man’s face.

 

Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, d’Artagnan did his best to keep his voice level as he answered, “Of course not, there’s no reason I can’t partner up with one of the recruits, just like always.” From the corner of his eye he caught the droop of Aramis’ shoulders and Porthos shaking his head, the two men positioned just far enough behind Athos that the older man couldn’t see them expressing their displeasure with his response.

 

“I’m happy to hear that,” Athos replied as he turned to encompass their other two friends in the conversation. “If there are no other suggestions…” he trailed off, waiting to see if either man had anything else to add.

 

“Actually,” Aramis neatly inserted himself into the space left by the older man’s pause. “I think we should begin with some shooting practice this afternoon.”

 

“I was thinking the same thing,” Porthos hurriedly agreed.

 

Raising a questioning eyebrow at his friends’ sudden desire to avoid sparring, Athos asked, “What about you, d’Artagnan; do you also think we should have the recruits working on their aim?”

 

Catching on to his friends’ intentions, the Gascon adopted an innocent expression while shaking his head. “Actually, I think we should work on their loading first. If they’re anything like me, they’ll be as slow as molasses in December. Once they’ve improved their speed, we can move to target practice.”

 

“I see,” Athos said as he watched Porthos’ and Aramis’ heads bob in agreement with the Gascon’s suggestion. “Very well, d’Artagnan, get the recruits organized and teach them the proper way to load a weapon.”

 

d’Artagnan stuttered for a moment as he looked to Aramis for direction, but the marksman was giving him a look that told him to play along. Nodding somewhat overly enthusiastically, he replied, “Alright, I’ll just get my things and we’ll get started.” Still feeling flustered, he moved off, leaving the rest of the Inseparables behind.

 

Suspicious about his friends’ odd behaviour, and certain that they were hiding something from him, Athos questioned, “You have something more to add, gentlemen?”

 

Porthos looked uncomfortable while Aramis’ face held a mix of confusion and hurt as he replied, “I’m normally the one teaching the recruits about shooting. Perhaps I should offer d’Artagnan my assistance…” He trailed off at the hard stare he was receiving from the older man.

 

“I’m certain that d’Artagnan has things well in hand, unless,” Athos paused meaningfully. “Unless there’s something more you need to tell me?”

 

The question hung in the air between them for several seconds until Porthos answered, clapping both his friends on their backs as he said, “Let’s go watch the lad at work. Least we can do is offer him some moral support.”

 

With that, he strode in the direction of the Gascon who’d managed to round up the recruits, and had led them to the edge of an open field, some one hundred meters from their current position. Athos shifted his penetrating stare to Aramis, hoping the marksman would say something to ease the awkwardness of their situation, but the man simply smiled and followed after Porthos. Letting out a long sigh at his friends’ stubbornness, he trudged after the others, wondering what exactly they were keeping from him and how much trouble it would cause.

* * *

d’Artagnan could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he pulled a ball from the pouch at his waist. Gripping the lead projectile tightly, he prayed that the minor trembling of his hands wasn’t noticeable to those watching. Shortly after he’d begun his demonstration, his friends had arrived, and while their presence would normally be calming, he currently found their presence nerve-racking.

 

Rationally, he knew that his skills had increased exponentially under Aramis’ tutelage, and he was confident that he could load and fire a pistol better than most of the regiment. Not as well as the marksman, mind you, but at least on par with Porthos and Athos, and it was an accomplishment that he was proud of.

 

Positioning his fingers at the barrel of his weapon, he allowed the ball to drop inside, tamping it down with the ramrod. Next, he took a small amount of powder and primed the pan, ending by displaying the loaded weapon. “Any questions,” he asked, as he scanned the faces of the recruits. After several seconds of silence, he continued, “Your turn, then.” Indicating the rest of the Inseparables with a toss of his head, he stated, “We’ll be watching how you do and offering corrections, as needed.”

 

Before the men could begin loading their weapons, Viellard spoke up, asking, “How do we know if you’ve done it right?”

 

The Gascon’s face blanched at the question, immediately off-balance at the blatant challenge of his skills.

 

“A properly loaded weapon will never let you down, and will fire when you have an enemy combatant in your sights,” Aramis smoothly interjected. Glancing in the marksman’s direction, d’Artagnan offered a nod of gratitude for his friend’s intervention.

 

About to encourage the men to start loading their weapons, d’Artagnan got no further than opening his mouth to speak before Viellard interrupted. “Shouldn’t he fire his pistol, then? You know, to show us that he did it correctly.”

 

The Gascon flushed at the suggestion that he didn’t know how to load a weapon, and this time it was Athos who stepped in to respond. “I can assure you that d’Artagnan has perfected this skill over many hours of diligent practice.”

 

Viellard smirked in reply and he threw a mocking look in the Gascon’s direction. Catching sight of the disrespect painted on the recruit’s face, d’Artagnan stepped forward as he said, “No, it’s fine Athos, I don’t mind showing everyone that my weapon will fire.”

 

Moving a few paces to his left, the Gascon positioned himself so that he was aiming away from his spectators and their camp. Bringing the pistol up, he drew a calming breath, feeling a moment of panic as he worried that his weapon might fail him. Exhaling, he squeezed the trigger, bracing against the loud shot of the pistol – a shot that never came.

 

In that moment, his stomach dropped. Shame warred with confusion as his stunned brain processed the fact that his weapon hadn’t fired. Behind him, he heard a snigger, followed by several more as one person’s laughter spread like a contagion until all of the trainees had joined in. One voice rose about the sounds of mirth to reach his burning ears. “If that’s perfection, then I’d say the Captain needs to raise his standards.” The comment drew forth a new round of guffaws, causing d’Artagnan to close his eyes as he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

 

“Enough!” Athos’ voice boomed across their training ground, the sounds of merriment ceasing abruptly in the wake of his anger. “You will show the Captain, and everyone in this regiment, the respect they deserve if you wish to become a part of it.” The recruits’ faces grew sombre under their lieutenants’ scathing glare. “Aramis, Porthos,” he continued, without looking in either man’s way. “You will continue their training. I expect every man to be able to load and fire a pistol in under two minutes by the time you’re done.”

 

Two minutes would be a stretch for every man there, and Aramis and Porthos recognized that the recruits would have to practice for several hours to successfully accomplish such a goal. Given how they’d reacted to d’Artagnan’s misfire, it seemed a fitting punishment. As they corralled the group and got their attention, Athos gripped the Gascon’s arm and led him away.

 

d’Artagnan was still in shock at what had happened, running through the steps in his mind, but finding no fault in the process he’d completed successfully hundreds of times in the past. As he and Athos came to a stop, he brought his pistol up, idly thinking to look down the barrel, only to have the older man’s hand come up and slap it down again. “d’Artagnan, never point a loaded weapon at yourself or anyone else,” Athos admonished, surprised that he would have to repeat such a basic lesson to his friend.

 

The Gascon looked at him with wide eyes, realizing his mistake immediately, but having no excuse other than distraction to offer for his ill-advised act. Maintaining eye contact with the younger man, Athos reached for the loaded pistol, asking as he did so, “May I?” d’Artagnan released the weapon into his friend’s hands, still at a loss to explain what had gone wrong.

 

“Athos,” he began, “I did everything right. I didn’t change a thing from how I’ve loaded my pistol a hundred times before.”

 

The older man didn’t respond, visually examining the Gascon’s pistol before placing a finger on the powder that lay on the pan. Frowning, he extended his free hand toward his friend. “Your powder.” Wordlessly, d’Artagnan slipped the pouch containing his powder free from his belt, placing it into his mentor’s waiting hand. Tucking the pistol beneath one arm, Athos opened the pouch and dipped his fingers inside, his heart skipping a beat as his suspicions were confirmed. “d’Artagnan, this powder is damp.”

 

Athos watched as d’Artagnan’s face fell, and he allowed the young man to take the pouch from his hands, needing to confirm for himself. Touching the powder, he rubbed a small amount between two fingers, before returning his stricken gaze to the older man. “I have no idea how this happened,” d’Artagnan began, clamping his mouth closed a moment later when he realized his words weren’t helping his situation any.

 

The older man was conflicted. It was clear that his protégé had made a rudimentary error, and as much as he wanted to protect d’Artagnan from the consequences of that mistake, he had a duty to the others and the rest of the regiment. Worse, the Gascon’s blunder had been made in front of the recruits, so there was no way to deal with the situation quietly. Pushing away his natural desire to protect the younger man, Athos held the pistol out to his friend. “You will clean this weapon and restore it to working order, and replace the powder in your pouch. When you have finished, fall in with the others. I expect you to load and fire in under two minutes, every time.”

 

Numbly, the Gascon nodded, slipping the useless pistol into his belt. Athos watched him walk away, at that moment hating the mantle of command that had demanded he punish his friend. With a heavy heart, he trudged back to the others, adopting a mask of indifference that he hoped would fool the men into believing that nothing was wrong.


	5. Stronger Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No more secrets between us. Surely we’ve all learned by now that we’re stronger together than apart.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and leaving comments and kudos. I hope you enjoy this next part.

Athos stood apart from the rest of the group, observing Aramis and Porthos timing the recruits as they loaded and fired, and then demanded that they complete the process once again, pointing out that their best wasn’t good enough by far. He swallowed the sigh that threatened, his eyes moving of their own accord to d’Artagnan’s solitary form, everything in his body language signalling how defeated he currently felt.

 

Athos hated that he’d had to reprimand his friend yet again, but the fear that something might happen to the young man had forced the words to spill from his mouth, no matter how harsh they may have sounded. The mistakes d’Artagnan had been making were so unlike the man Athos had trained and grown to like, and his mind struggled to comprehend whether his initial assessment of the young man’s suitability had been correct after all.

 

He clearly recalled his earlier words to Treville when he described the Gascon as talented but raw. Over the year that the young man had spent with the Inseparables, they’d smoothed and polished those rough edges, revealing a sharp mind, a brave heart, and a natural talent that had only blossomed with their attention. Still, d’Artagnan was by far one of the youngest to ever receive his commission, and a part of Athos wondered if it hadn’t been too soon.

 

His gaze drifted back to the recruits in time to see Viellard aim his weapon, the man grinning widely as his pistol discharged and the ball struck a tree stump. The shot was a good one, especially given the distance, and the recruit strutted back to the others, fairly preening under the congratulatory claps on the back from his peers. As Athos continued to observe the interactions between the recruits, a new idea began to form, and he wondered if he wasn’t just now realizing why Treville had put them in charge of the training mission to begin with.

 

The recruits were drawn to Viellard, just as moths to a flame, each man eager to gain his attention. Viellard easily joked and laughed with the others, and the men seemed to take their cue from him; it was obvious that he was their informal leader. That fact concerned Athos, having already heard firsthand the disrespectful comments coming from Viellard’s mouth. Factoring in the behaviours of the others as they challenged those in superior positions to themselves, Athos could only come to one conclusion: Viellard was a bad influence on the recruits. If allowed to continue, the man would divide the group, just as he would divide the regiment once back in Paris.

 

Glancing towards Aramis and Porthos, Athos made a mental note to discuss his thoughts with them later. For now, it seemed that his two friends were deeply engrossed in their own conversation. 

* * *

“I just can’t believe he’d make a mistake like that,” Porthos declared, his gaze landing momentarily on d’Artagnan’s bowed back. Aramis seemed less convinced, and offered a non-committal shrug in reply. “Come on, Aramis, how many times has he loaded a weapon?”

 

“Too many times to count,” the marksman replied wearily.

 

“And out of those times, when has he ever used damp powder?” Porthos pressed, having watched as Athos examined d’Artagnan’s supplies, and coming to the only logical conclusion.

 

Grudgingly, Aramis admitted, “Never. But that doesn’t mean there can’t be a first time.”

 

Porthos snorted in disbelief. “You can think that if you want, but there’s no way he would have made that kind of mistake. This mission means too much to him. No, there’s somethin’ else goin’ on here.”

 

Aramis followed the larger man’s gaze, watching as Viellard took his shot and strutted back to the other recruits. He frowned at the man’s boastful nature, dismissing the fact that he’d done the same thing in the past when demonstrating his skill with a loaded weapon. “Viellard?” he asked, a part of his brain already counting out the time as the man in question began reloading his pistol.

 

“Something’s off about him, though I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Porthos agreed. He paused for a moment as Jaccoud discharged his weapon, calling out to him when he’d finished, “You’ll need to be faster than that if you want to stay alive, Jaccoud. Do it again.” The recruit gave a short nod in acknowledgement as he passed.

 

“He hurt d’Artagnan while they were sparring yesterday,” Aramis admitted. “He’s got a broken rib on his left side.”

 

“Damn it,” Porthos swore. “I knew something was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me what.”

 

His lips turning up in an amused smile, the marksman asked, “Is that why you were trying to convince Athos that he shouldn’t spar today?”

 

Porthos grinned as he countered with his own question. “That why you were so eager to agree with me?”

 

Aramis let out a short, soft laugh at his friend’s perceptiveness. “Fine, yes, you’ve got us both figured out. How _did_ you know that d’Artagnan was hurt worse than he was letting on?”

 

“Didn’t take a genius to figure it out; he was damn near as pale as Athos by the time we’d stopped riding,” Porthos explained. “Plus, that pain draught of yours has a pretty distinctive smell; hard to miss if you’re familiar with it.”

 

“Ah,” Aramis replied. “I was hoping no one would notice that, but as you said, he was almost as pale as Athos, and I couldn’t let him keep dealing with the pain alone.”

 

Softening his voice, Porthos assured, “You did the right thing, Aramis.”

 

“As did you, my friend, as did you,” the marksman concurred.

 

Their conversation stopped as they watched d’Artagnan approach and join the trainees. Wordlessly, the Gascon arranged his things, and then began to load his pistol. “Christ, this is gonna be bad,” Porthos declared, noting the dull, lifeless expression on the normally exuberant man’s face. Beside him, Aramis could only nod in agreement. 

* * *

d’Artagnan took his place with the other trainees, keeping his head down and refusing to make eye contact with any of them. Of all the punishments that Athos could have imagined, placing him at the same level as the recruits was by far one of the worst. Only days prior, he’d been excited about the prospect of joining his friends as an equal on their mission, knowing that the newer men would be looking up to him for guidance and advice. Now, he felt only shame, and wished he could simply disappear.

 

He felt the others’ eyes on him, and stalwartly refused to look up. Despite the distance that separated him from Aramis and Porthos, he could feel their sympathy, which only angered him further. He didn’t need, or want, anyone’s pity, and he bit back a curse as he fumbled the ball in his hands, missing the barrel of his pistol. Forcing himself to take a deep, steadying breath, he pushed aside the sharp pain of his broken rib and carefully finished loading his weapon.

 

Wordlessly, he moved to the front of the group and positioned himself to fire. Stopping, he glanced in Athos’ direction, hoping for some sign of encouragement or, at least, something other than the disappointment he’d seen earlier, but it was not to be; their lieutenant’s face was expressionless as he calmly waited for the Gascon to take his shot.

 

Next, his eyes landed on Aramis and Porthos, both men offering tremulous smiles of support, but d’Artagnan could see that they shared his fear – what if his weapon didn’t discharge again? The thought was almost too much to bear, and d’Artagnan felt a tremor run through his arm, almost dislodging the pistol from his clammy hand. With effort, he turned his attention to the stump in the distance that had become their impromptu target.

 

Raising his arm, he felt the fine trembling along the length of his muscles, which made his hand and pistol shake. Oh, God, he thought to himself, as he lowered his arm, while at the same time closing his eyes against the fear that was clawing its way from his chest. He couldn’t do this. It would be best if he just resigned his commission now and rode away before anyone else could find out what an imposter he was. How could he have ever thought he was good enough to be a Musketeer?

 

“d’Artagnan, are you alright?” Porthos called, interrupting his internal monologue. Glancing back at his friend, he gave a curt nod, realizing with great embarrassment that his delay had only made sure that he was the focus of everyone’s attention.

 

Raising his hand once more, he took careful aim, sending up a quick prayer that his pistol discharged. Squeezing the trigger, he nearly sobbed in relief at the welcome sound of the shot. His eyes misted with unshed tears, and he hoped the others would think it was merely because of the smoke from firing his weapon.

 

“Good shot,” Aramis declared, having watched d’Artagnan’s ball embed itself firmly into the tree stump.

 

Without any sign of acknowledgement, the Gascon returned to his place and began loading once more, blinking rapidly against the moisture in his eyes and the overly fast beating of his heart. There was no way he could ever live this down. 

* * *

The fire reflected in Athos’ eyes as he sat staring into it, as though hoping to find answers to his questions within the dancing flames. Rubbing a hand down his face, Porthos sighed as he said, “I just don’t think this is a serious as you’re making it out to be.”

 

The three men had been discussing d’Artagnan’s performance on the mission so far, Aramis and Porthos perceptively honing in on Athos’ concerns, even before he’d grudgingly admitted them to his friends. The older man still felt guilty for his earlier dealings with the Gascon. It had nearly broken him to watch the shell of man who’d gone through the motions of loading and firing alongside the recruits, but Athos could not think of any other way of handling the matter. If the mistake had been made by anyone other than d’Artagnan, he would have doled out the same punishment, and he loathed the idea of treating his protégé any differently, lest one of the others accuse him of favoritism.

 

A small part of him had hoped that the Gascon would react with anger rather than discouragement, rallying to prove Athos and the others wrong in their evaluation of his skills. Instead, d’Artagnan had merely gone through the motions, remaining unresponsive to everyone around him as he’d completed the drill, time after time, until Athos had called a halt to their practice. Wordlessly, the Gascon had gathered his things and trudged off, disappearing for the next hour to God knew where, leaving Athos to worry for the entire duration of his absence, and wonder if the young man had finally had enough and decided to leave permanently.

 

“His mistakes are no worse than ones we’ve all made at one time or another,” Aramis interjected reasonably, drawing Athos from his thoughts.

 

“That is the point, is it not,” the older man stated pointedly. “We were recruits when we made those mistakes, while d’Artagnan is a fully commissioned Musketeer. Further, he is a Musketeer who now shares responsibility for training future soldiers. How can we expect from him anything less than perfection?”

 

Athos’ words landed heavily and caused their conversation to stall. As much as Aramis and Porthos wanted to defend the Gascon, Athos was right that d’Artagnan’s actions – all of theirs, really – needed to be above reproach while they were tasked with teaching the others. Mistakes would now serve as lessons for the recruits, as they were woven into stories and shared at opportune moments; they were not meant to be demonstrated by any of the Inseparables.

 

Sighing, Porthos scrubbed a hand across his face once more before letting his head hang momentarily between his shoulders. When he looked up, his expression spoke of resignation. “I can’t argue with that, Athos, but this is d’Artagnan.”

 

The older man closed his eyes as he let the impact of his friend’s words wash over him. _“…this is d’Artagnan.”_ With that simple assertion, Porthos had stated the crux of the issue. If the situation involved anyone other than d’Artagnan, perhaps he could have been more objective, more unfeeling, less…invested. The truth was that from the moment the young man had overcome Athos’ firmly erected barriers against the outside world, he’d been unable to be anything other than hopelessly invested in the Gascon’s fate. When d’Artagnan had succeeded, Athos’ heart had soared; when d’Artagnan failed, Athos shared the disappointment and frustration of that failure as if it was his own. It was just another example of how completely his life and happiness was entwined with his youngest brother’s.

 

Tiredly, Athos said, “I need to be able to give Treville a positive report of his conduct.” He trailed off, at a loss for words.

 

“But you feel that you have a duty to deliver an honest assessment, and that may not be possible if d’Artagnan continues making such novice errors,” Aramis finished, Athos nodding his agreement with the marksman’s words. It was Aramis’ turn to let out a long sigh, all of them worried about the Gascon while wondering why he’d suddenly begun to make such basic mistakes. Thinking out loud, the marksman voiced the question. “Why is he suddenly so prone to such oversights. I mean, these are skills that he mastered during his first days with us, or in the case of his tack, from even earlier than that. What’s changed?”

 

They sat in silence for several moments before Porthos answered, “Viellard.”

 

Athos’ eyebrow rose at the large man’s confident statement, while Aramis’ expression became guarded, wondering if his friend would reveal the secret he’d earlier confided. “Viellard’s been there every time something’s gone wrong,” Porthos continued as he reviewed the events of the past days in his mind’s eye. “He was the first to taunt d’Artagnan about his riding, and he was quick to speak out after his pistol didn’t fire.” He paused, giving the marksman a pointed look.

 

Aramis clenched his jaw as he did his best to communicate his reticence in telling Athos about d’Artagnan’s injury. After several seconds, it was the older man who ended the silent argument. “Just tell me, Aramis. It’s clear there’s something you’re keeping from me. I can’t protect d’Artagnan if I don’t have all the facts.”

 

Throwing Porthos a final glare, Aramis cleared his throat before responding. “Viellard broke one of the boy’s ribs while they were sparring.”

 

“What?” Athos hissed lowly, his quiet voice a sure sign that he was incredibly angry. His eyes blazed as he asked, “And why would you think it a good idea to keep this from me?”

 

Aramis now looked incredibly uncomfortable, while Porthos felt guilty for having forced the marksman to divulge the Gascon’s secret. “d’Artagnan asked him not to say anything,” the large man replied, attempting to diffuse some of Athos’ anger with the medic.

 

Athos rolled his eyes as he fought to control his temper. “Again, I ask, why would you think this to be a good idea?”

 

“Athos, stop; there is more going on here than the boy’s desire to hide an injury,” Aramis interjected calmly. “Why do _you_ think he’d keep something like this from you?”

 

The older man sat back suddenly at the odd question, surprised that things had been turned around in such a manner. “This has nothing to do with me,” he countered.

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Athos,” Porthos explained. “This has everything to do with you.”

 

Nodding, Aramis added, “You and d’Artagnan.” At the confused expression on the older man’s face, he elaborated. “Surely you know how he feels about you?” Athos’ face remained unchanged, and the marksman had to restrain himself from knocking some sense into his friend. “Athos, he worships you. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to win your favour, and the idea of you thinking badly of him would be devastating.”

 

The older man frowned at his friend’s words, already preparing to argue against them when Porthos began to speak. “Don’t try to deny it, and don’t say that the feeling doesn’t go both ways. It’s obvious the boy’s gotten to you, too, and there’s nothin’ you wouldn’t do to protect him.”

 

Athos considered arguing for another moment, before grudgingly staying silent, allowing his lack of response to be considered agreement with his friends’ comments. Deciding that their conversation had strayed far too close to matters he didn’t wish to talk about, he steered the discussion back to Porthos’ earlier comment. “You really believe that Viellard is involved somehow?”

 

Aramis shrugged as he said, “We know for certain that he broke d’Artagnan’s rib. Whether that was truly an accident or not…” He trailed off, allowing his friends to draw their own conclusions.

 

“And he’s been quick to judge the lad whenever something’s gone wrong,” Porthos added, thinking back to the words the recruit had uttered the previous night.

 

Athos looked thoughtful as he commented, “No solid proof, however.” Aramis and Porthos shook their heads in response. “Then I think it best for us to keep a much closer watch on Viellard. And,” he pinned the marksman with a hard look, “no more secrets between us. Surely we’ve all learned by now that we’re stronger together than apart.” Staring into the fire, they nodded at the truth of the older man’s words.


	6. Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos rolled slightly to his side, propping himself up on an elbow to see what was happening. Their camp was in chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and shared their thoughts on the last chapter. Enjoy!

d’Artagnan rinsed the pot they’d used for their dinner, already dreading heading back to camp to face the censure on his friends’ faces. Following their afternoon training session, he’d been so embarrassed by his earlier failure that he’d simply gathered his things and walked away. Given the expression on Athos’ face when he’d returned, he’d managed to disappoint his mentor once again. That knowledge ate at him like some vile, hungry beast, and he closed his eyes for a moment against the nausea that stirred in his stomach.

 

Swallowing thickly, he rose from the bank of the stream, carrying the pot in one hand while his other steadied his sword. He could see Jaccoud up ahead, the other man having helped him with their dishes before leaving to head back while d’Artagnan finished up. They’d been fortunate that evening and had a warm meal of rabbit stew, Porthos and Aramis’ skills providing them with the meat while the recruits had cleaned their weapons.

 

While he and Jaccoud had been cleaning up from dinner, the other recruits had been tasked with caring for their horses, all of the steeds needing fresh water and exercise after standing in place for the majority of the day. d’Artagnan had looked longingly after the men as they’d headed towards their mounts before chastising and reminding himself that he didn’t deserve the respite that riding would provide.

 

His vision blurred momentarily, causing him to stumble in the twilight. Blinking rapidly, he recovered his balance, and pushed his stomach’s ongoing discomfort to the back of his mind as he continued to trudge along. Despite the flavorful meal they’d had, he’d eaten very little, spending most of his time sipping his cup of wine. For a second, he’d considered taking the bottle and disappearing again in an effort to drown his sorrows, but one look in Athos’ direction had him dismissing the idea as insane and incredibly self-indulgent, and something that would only make matters worse.

 

d’Artagnan’s lips twitched into an expression of discomfort as he felt a twinge from his unsettled stomach. Clearly the stress of the past days was affecting him more than he’d realized. He moved his hand from his sword to his stomach, letting it settle there gently in a bid to quiet his upset midsection. He winced at another pang of discomfort as his belly began to complain nearly as loudly as his broken rib. Giving a slight shake of his head, he wondered at the state he was in, thinking idly that he seemed to be falling apart.

 

A sudden flush of heat seemed to wash over him, and he lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had suddenly appeared. He stumbled again, his feet feeling disconnected from his body, and he swayed momentarily as he focused on regaining his balance. He was nearly at the camp, and as he drew closer, the image of his destination seemed to blur and double, before coming into focus once again. He shook his head as a sense light-headedness settled over him, and he almost stumbled once more as the feeling of disconnection persisted.

 

A part of his brain recognized that he should be concerned at the odd sensations he was experiencing, but another part welcomed the detachment that dulled his feelings of distress from earlier. Without realization, he dropped the pot he’d been carrying, his free hands now fumbling with his weapons’ belt, which he dropped next. His unencumbered fingers moved to the clasp of his doublet, and he shrugged gratefully out of the leather, allowing it to fall behind him as he walked. The cool evening breeze caressed his overheated skin, causing goosebumps to rise, but he felt only relief as he continued on.

 

Moments later, he was on the edge of their camp, and his feet faltered and then stopped as d’Artagnan took in the tableu in front of him. His gaze landed instinctively on his friends, their faces morphing in and out of focus, before elongating and stretching in an unnatural fashion. He frowned at the image and continued to stare, the faces of his friends slowly transforming as he watched.

 

Suddenly, Athos was gone, and in his place stood someone d’Artagnan had never seen before. Seconds later, the stranger drew his main gauche and swiftly shifted positions until he was holding the dangerous blade to Aramis’ neck. A thrill of fear spiked in the Gascon’s chest, and his breath hitched momentarily as he wondered what he should do. Lifting his hands upwards, he examined them silently, unsure if they were still attached to his body, and if they would obey his commands.

 

Slowly, his head in a fog, he looked back at Aramis, and the small line of red that had appeared beneath his chin as the dagger began to pierce the fragile skin there. In that moment, d’Artagnan knew he had to act to save his friend, and his hand moved clumsily to his hip, searching for the pistol he carried there. When he came up empty-handed, his eyes shifted to rove over the scene before him, seeking a weapon that he could use to help the marksman.

 

Dazedly, he walked forward as he spotted what he wanted. Engrossed in conversation, no one noticed as he slowly came up behind Petit, smoothly slipping the pistol from the man’s belt.

 

“Hey, what are you doing?” The recruit demanded as he turned around, startled by the unexpected action. One look at d’Artagnan’s sweaty, pale face had him changing his tone to one of worry. “Are you alright?”

 

Petit’s face wavered in front of the Gascon, making him close his eyes for a moment as nausea flared in his belly at the odd sight. When he opened them again, the recruit looked normal and he mumbled a soft reply. “’M fine.”

 

Turning away from the confused man, d’Artagnan took two steps towards the Inseparables, the men now having taken notice of him and watching him with concern. The Gascon raised the pistol and took aim at the blurring image of the stranger, biting his lower lip as the man’s double appeared before the two figures merged back into one. “Let him go,” d’Artagnan demanded, his eyes momentarily glancing at his hand to confirm that he’d managed to hold onto his weapon.

 

“Let who go, d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked, his voice low and calm in an effort to diffuse whatever was happening.

 

“Aramis,” the Gascon slurred, as he swayed momentarily before regaining his balance.

 

The marksman traded confused looks with Porthos, neither man understanding what d’Artagnan was talking about, but noting their young friend’s poor condition. Sweat continued to bead at d’Artagnan’s temples, and some of the hair around his face stuck to his skin. Even stranger was the lack of the Gascon’s doublet and weapons, and the way in which his eyes seemed to lose focus, skittering for a moment to look at who knew what.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’m fine,” Aramis stated, hoping to convince their friend to lower his weapon. “Why don’t you put the pistol down and you can tell us what you think is wrong.”

 

“Yes, d’Artagnan, listen to Aramis,” Athos said, hoping that the addition of his words to the marksman’s would do the trick.

 

“No!” the Gascon shouted, the pistol in his hand jerking angrily as his breathing increased. “Put the dagger down and maybe I’ll show you some mercy.”

 

The three men were stunned, especially since the young man’s ire seemed directed at Athos. “I’m not holding anything,” the older man stated reasonably, slowing lifting his empty hands up in supplication. “See?” he said.

 

While everyone in the camp had stayed still and watched things unfold, d’Artagnan’s muddled mind saw the stranger slide the sharp steel across Aramis’ throat, his friend’s neck erupting immediately with a bright spray of red. “No!” d’Artagnan screamed, his finger tugging reflexively on the pistol’s trigger.

 

Athos grunted as the ball struck him, falling to the ground with the impact. Sounds of anguish and anger erupted, and moments later d’Artagnan’s body struck the ground. Within seconds, two of their group were down, and no one had any idea why. Breaking the stunned silence, Porthos asked, “What the hell just happened?”

* * *

The Inseparables’ conversation was interrupted when they heard Petit’s cry of surprise. Turning, they saw d’Artagnan standing opposite the recruit with a pistol in his hand. As they watched, the Gascon moved closer, raising his arm to point his weapon at Athos. The older man was confused by the strange behaviour, his shock spiking with his protégé’s odd words. He listened as Porthos questioned the young man’s bizarre request, taking in his friend’s appearance as he did so.

 

d’Artagnan looked unwell and barely aware of his surroundings. As Aramis’ voice entered the conversation, Athos’ gaze slid over the Gascon’s pale and clammy features, noting the windswept wisps of hair that clung to his damp skin. Although their young friend was pointing a pistol in his direction, Athos felt nothing but fear for the other man, already dreading what might happen to d’Artagnan if he chose to fire. Despite his best intentions, the Gascon’s performance thus far had been below expectation, and if he now added some grievous mistake to his tally, Athos feared there would be no way to protect the young man from Treville’s wrath.

 

With that thought at the forefront of his mind, the older man voiced his support of Aramis’ suggestion. “Yes, d’Artagnan, listen to Aramis.” He was shocked when the Gascon reacted with rage, moving immediately to counter his friend’s statement by raising his hands, hoping that d’Artagnan would see that they were empty. “I’m not holding anything. See?”

 

Athos was certain that what happened next would forever be burned into his memory. The Gascon’s face twisted into an expression of such rage that the older man’s breath momentarily hitched in his chest. He’d never before seen such a look on his friend’s face, and that it was now directed at him was more heartbreaking than terrifying. Before he could wonder any further about the source of d’Artagnan’s apparent hatred, the pistol in the young man’s hand fired. Athos felt the punch of the ball striking him, throwing him off-balance to fall to the ground.

 

Shouts immediately followed the loud shot, and he was certain that the thud he heard next was the sound of another’s body hitting the ground. With effort, Athos rolled slightly to his side, propping himself up on an elbow to see what was happening. Their camp was in chaos.

 

Several feet away, three men rolled on the ground, clearly battling to get the upper hand. Porthos stood nearby, looking for an opening to lend a hand and end the fight. Aramis stood partway between Athos and Porthos, clearly torn about who to check on first. “Aramis,” the older man called, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he tried again, this time managing to catch the marksman’s attention. “Aramis, what’s happening?”

 

With a last concerned look at the tangle of arms and legs on the ground, the marksman reluctantly turned away from the fight and moved to Athos’s side. Crouching down, his hands moved immediately to the older man’s torso, pausing momentarily when he realized he had no idea where Athos had been hurt. With his hands hovering above his friend’s chest, Aramis asked, “Where were you shot?”

 

For a blissful second, Athos enjoyed the complete absence of pain, not yet having registered the site of the ball’s impact. With the medic’s question, his brain seemed to re-engage, registering the sharp sting of the penetrating wound. “Arm,” he gritted out, indicating his left side with his chin.

 

“Lie back so I can have a look,” the medic commanded, already pressing his hands against the older man’s shoulders.

 

Athos resisted as his gaze returned to the others. “d’Artagnan?”

 

Before the marksman could reply, a piercing whistle rent the air, stopping the fight that was taking place. With mystifying ease, Porthos stepped forward and took advantage of the pause, pulling first Petit, then Viellard from the pile of bodies on the ground to reveal a limp Gascon. Seeing the obviously unconscious young man, Porthos turned his attention to the two recruits. “What the hell ‘appened?”

 

The men stiffened under the intimidating Musketeer’s glare, and Viellard summoned a meek response. “I think I managed to knock him out, Sir.”

 

Stepping forward, Porthos crowded the recruit as he demanded, “Then why didn’t you get off him once he was unconscious?”

 

Viellard had the grace to flush as he sheepishly replied, “I didn’t realize he wasn’t fighting back anymore.”

 

“Might be a skill you want to develop,” Porthos stated with contempt. “You know, recognizing when your opponent has been defeated.” His words dripped with scorn, and Viellard had the good sense to simply nod in reply.

 

Shifting away from the recruit, he barked at Petit, “Get me some lengths of rope to bind him.”

 

Several feet away, Aramis had managed to slide Athos’ arm free of his doublet, although the older man had continued to refuse to lie down. He paused at Porthos’ words, wondering why in the world they would need to restrain their friend. “What do you mean bind him?”

 

Porthos turned at the marksman’s question, his gaze first settling on Aramis before moving to Athos. The older man’s eyes reflected an understanding of Porthos’ order, along with a deep sadness at the necessity of it.

 

“Aramis,” Athos softly said. “We have no idea why d’Artagnan acted as he did. Until we can confirm that he’s not a danger to anyone here, we have to take precautions.”

 

The marksman’s face fell as he tried to plead with the older man to change his mind. “Athos,” he began quietly, “are you certain this is absolutely necessary?”

 

“Aramis, as much as my arm is throbbing right now, we were fortunate that I was the one shot,” Athos replied, hoping the marksman would understand what he’d left unsaid. The medic’s eyes clouded with pain at the idea of restraining one of their own, but he nodded in agreement. Whether he liked it or not, Athos was correct, and if one of the recruits had been injured, there would have been no way to protect their friend from the resulting consequences.

 

Leaving the older man to explain things to Aramis, Porthos had taken the rope provided by Petit and crouched at d’Artagnan’s side. Gently, he’d checked the Gascon’s pulse and breathing, confirming that their friend didn’t seem to be struggling in any way. Setting the rope aside for a moment, he’d carefully rearranged d’Artagnan’s limbs and torso so that he’d be as comfortable as possible, before firmly securing his friend’s wrists and ankles. Standing up, he sighed wearily, his eyes remaining fixed on the Gascon’s unmoving form. He was still standing guard over the young man when Aramis came over to check on his other patient.

 

“What the hell happened?” Porthos asked softly, his gaze unwaveringly locked on d’Artagnan’s face.

 

Aramis shook his head helplessly as he replied, “I have no idea, but there’s no way he was in his right mind.”

 

“No, he wasn’t,” Athos agreed, startling his two friends with his arrival behind them. The men shifted their positions, allowing the older man to step forward so he could properly see the Gascon. Athos was pale, and his features were pinched with pain as he held his injured left arm close to his body with his other hand. His doublet was tossed carelessly over his shoulders, covering the swath of white linen around his upper arm. The medic had already told him that he’d need stitches to properly close the wound, but he’d argued with the medic to wait until after d’Artagnan had been checked.

 

“Athos, you should be resting,” Aramis stated.

 

“I’ll rest when we know why d’Artagnan shot me,” the older man countered, his steely tone preventing any further discussion.

 

With a resigned sign, the marksman settled himself next to the Gascon to conduct his examination, while Porthos and Athos looked on. A few minutes later, he was pushing himself to his feet, brushing at the knees of his breeches as he stood. Facing his friends’ expectant faces, he shared his findings. “As far as I can tell, he’s simply unconscious right now.”   

 

“Viellard said he knocked ‘im out,” Porthos interjected.

 

The marksman’s brow furrowed at the thought of the recruit causing additional harm to their friend. “Yes, I’d hazard that he has an exceptionally vicious right hook if the bruising that’s appearing is anything to go by.” Unbidden, their eyes shifted momentarily to d’Artagnan’s face, swelling evident around his left eye, while the skin above and below it was already darkening.

 

“Anything else,” Athos asked, his voice devoid of emotion as he clamped down on his anger at his friend’s treatment.

 

“Nothing that I was able to find,” Aramis admitted with a sense of relief. “He’s breathing fine, so I think he got lucky with that broken rib. Other than some minor cuts and bruises, I’d say his head took the worst of it.”

 

“Is that why he’s still out?” Porthos asked, having hoped the young man would have woken by now.

 

“Possibly, probably, maybe,” Aramis shrugged. “Take your pick. It’s possible that Viellard simply packs a mean punch, and it’s just as likely that whatever caused d’Artagnan to act so oddly is still affecting him now. Until he wakes, there’s really no way to tell.”

 

“But he _will_ wake?” Athos asked, his words heavily tinged with worry.

 

Although Aramis hated offering absolutes, he couldn’t help but try and alleviate his friend’s fears. “I believe he will,” he offered guardedly. The relief that appeared on Athos’ face also drained away some of the tension in his body, but left the older man looking even more haggard than when he’d first been shot.

 

Apparently Porthos had noticed as well. “Athos, let Aramis fix up that arm for you.”

 

For a moment, it appeared that the older man might argue against the suggestion, but he ended up simply nodding tiredly in agreement. “Fine, but I want you to speak with the others to see if you can find out anything about what might have caused d’Artagnan’s strange behaviour.” He began to turn as the marksman placed a hand on his shoulder to guide him back to the fire to sit down. “And, Porthos, make sure that Viellard knows he will be receiving some one-on-one instruction from you. Clearly, he doesn’t know his own strength, and I feel that you’re the best person to help him correct that.”

 

The large man smiled predatorially as he replied, “You can count on it.”


	7. Charles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “His name was Charles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the events in the last chapter. Hope you enjoy what happens next.

Several hours later and the camp was unrecognizable as the site of the earlier chaos. Petit had been given back his pistol, along with a sound dressing-down on the need for a solider to always be aware of his surroundings, lest his weapons be used against him. The recruit had merely nodded in acknowledgement, relieved beyond measure when Porthos had turned his attention his Viellard.

 

Though it was likely that the other recruit’s actions had ended their struggle with d’Artagnan, the large Musketeer was obviously unimpressed, if his scathing words were anything to go by. Unknown to anyone but the other Inseparables, Porthos had felt a deep sense of satisfaction when Viellard had blanched at hearing about their future one-on-one sparring session. Sadly, the feeling was fleeting, and replaced with intense worry once he’d dismissed the two recruits, only to turn his gaze back to the Gascon.

 

d’Artagnan had been moved closer to the fire, Aramis pointing out that their friend didn’t even have his doublet to protect him against the evening chill. A contrite Petit had found it, along with the discarded pot, and returned it to Porthos shortly afterwards, the large man offering a nod and grudging smile of thanks at the thoughtful act. The Gascon had further been wrapped in a blanket, hiding the dreaded ropes around his hands and ankles from view. Soon afterwards, the camp settled for the night, Aramis insisting he would take the first watch since he planned to stay awake regardless to care for his patients.

 

Now, it was nearing dawn, and Aramis had been replaced by Porthos along with another of the recruits. They sat apart from the fire, guarding their night vision, despite the fact that the large man was certain there was nothing around from which they needed to protect themselves. However, their chosen location allowed some semblance of privacy for Athos, who sat watch over d’Artagnan.

 

Athos had fallen asleep shortly after his arm had been properly tended, his visit with Morpheus aided by one of Aramis’ pain draughts. He’d stalwartly refused additional relief once he’d woken, and was unable to sleep after he’d been told that d’Artagnan still hadn’t been awake. While the medic tried to explain that head wounds were notoriously unpredictable, suggesting there was no need for worry, both Athos and Porthos had been soldiering long enough to know better; the longer the Gascon remained unconscious, the more severe his head injury was likely to be.

 

Recognizing the futility of arguing with the older man, Aramis had simply draped a blanket over his friend’s shoulders. Telling Porthos to keep an eye on Athos, the medic had settled into his bedroll to get some rest. As far as the large man could tell, Athos hadn’t moved since. Stifling a yawn, Porthos threw another glance towards his two injured friends, wondering yet again how they’d ended up in such a situation. Their mission should have been an easy one, yet they’d been plagued by misfortune since almost the minute they’d set out.

 

Porthos’ ruminations were interrupted by Athos’ voice, the older man’s tone a mix of relief and trepidation. “d’Artagnan?”

 

Frowning, the large man turned to Lebas as he said, “Stay at your post while I check this out.” The recruit looked momentarily mystified before realizing what Porthos was referring to.

 

Receiving a nod from Lebas, the large man made his way to Athos’ side. Without looking up, the older man answered the unspoken question. “I think he’s waking up.”

 

“Should we wake Aramis?” Porthos queried, noting the subtle signs of wakefulness that Athos had already observed.

 

“Hmm,” the older man replied distractedly, continuing to watch the Gascon carefully, and trusting that his friend would wake the medic.

 

The transition from sleep to awareness was nearly instantaneous as d’Artagnan’s eyes flew open, and panicked breaths surged in his chest. Immediately, he began to struggle as his muddled brain realized he’d been restrained. Athos sat stunned at the guttural, almost animalistic noises that the young man was emitting as he thrashed about. It was obvious that the Gascon was confused and scared, and the older man shifted to his knees to try and calm his friend. Reaching out with his right hand, intending to try and cut through d’Artagnan’s panic, he was stopped by Aramis’ sharp command. “Athos, don’t!”

 

Ripping his gaze from the Gascon for the first time in many hours, he turned his questioning gaze to the medic, who was swiftly approaching. Sparing the older man a short glance as he crouched next to d’Artagnan, he elaborated, “It’s hard to know how he’ll react to your touch.”

 

Athos pressed his right hand firmly to his chest, shaken by Aramis’ suggestion that his protégé might react badly. Given what had transpired earlier, he privately acknowledged the medic was right to be leery, as it was possible that d’Artagnan still thought him to be the enemy. With that thought, he silently shifted further away from the Gascon, while still keeping the young man in his sights.

 

Aramis leaned over d’Artagnan, unhesitatingly placing one warm hand on their friend’s forehead, while the other rested on his heaving chest. The Gascon’s eyes were now squeezed tightly closed, and a couple tears had managed to escape and dampen his cheeks. “Calm, d’Artagnan, you must slow down your breathing,” the medic coaxed, hoping the combination of his touch and words would have the desired effect.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes sprang open and he stared wildly up at the marksman, making Aramis wonder what the young man was seeing. “You’re alright, but I need you to take slower, deeper breaths,” he repeated, internally cringing at the amount of pain the Gascon must be causing himself due to his broken rib.

 

Minutely, the young man’s breathing slowed and stuttered, causing Aramis to intervene once again. “No, don’t hold your breath. I know it hurts, but you must try to take deep, even breaths.” At his words, the Gascon gasped for air, but each subsequent inhale and exhale seemed less labored. “Good, that’s very good,” the medic praised softly.

 

Squinting upwards, and focusing for the first time, d’Artagnan wheezed, “Aramis?”

 

“Yes, it’s me,” the medic replied, his lips quirking in a faint smile at his friend’s recognition. “How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon’s eyes darted to one side, his confusion still apparent as he sought to understand what was happening. “Why am I on the ground?” He shivered at the first awareness of the cold that was seeping into his bones.

 

The question brought a faint smile to Aramis’ face. “You were sleeping.”

 

The answer seemed to satisfy the young man, but his next question proved that he was still puzzled about what was going on. “Am I tied up?”

 

The medic’s face dipped towards his chest, hiding it from view as his earlier smile faded away. Remembering the marksman’s earlier discomfort, Porthos moved closer to answer. “Yes, you are. Do you remember anything from before…” he paused for a moment as he searched for the right words. “Before you went to sleep?”

 

d’Artagnan’s brain was apparently stuck on the first part of what Porthos had told him as he asked, “Who tied me up?” Aramis and Porthos traded pained looks, but before either man could answer, the Gascon was speaking again. “Couldn’t you stop them?”

 

The marksman glanced towards Porthos again and was just in time to see the stricken expression that flashed across his friend’s face. As much as Aramis had been hesitant to restrain the Gascon, at least he didn’t carry the guilt of having done the actual deed. Clearing his voice, he replied, “It was necessary, d’Artagnan, for your protection.” Porthos gave the marksman a look of gratitude for the partial explanation he’d offered.

 

Deciding they needed to assess the level of danger the young man posed, Aramis motioned with one hand for Athos to move into d’Artagnan’s line of sight. “Do you know who this is?” he asked once the older man was close enough.

 

The Gascon’s brow furrowed, and for a moment the three friends were convinced that they were about to be treated to a repeat of earlier. Seconds later, the lines on d’Artagnan’s forehead smoothed, and he replied with a question of his own. “Athos, are you alright? You look pale.”

 

A huff of relief escaped the older man’s lips before he could stop it, grateful beyond measure that whatever had caused his protégé to turn against him no longer seemed to be influencing him. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice gruff with emotion. “It’s you who’s had us worried. Do you remember what happened?”

 

The Gascon’s gaze became unfocused as he turned inwards, searching his memory for the information Athos was seeking. He could vividly recall his terror at waking and feeling the ropes that bit into his wrists and held his ankles captive. Following swiftly on the heels of that memory was the sensation that he was drowning, as though there was some great weight pressing against his chest and preventing him from taking in enough air.

 

“d’Artagnan, stop, there’s no need to be afraid,” Aramis’ voice startled him, causing him to belatedly realize that he’d begun to panic once more. With effort, he forced himself to draw several slow breaths, giving the medic a nod once he felt he’d regained some semblance of calm. The marksman squeezed his upper arm gently in quiet assurance.

 

Turning his attention to Athos and Porthos, while maintaining the connection with the Gascon, he softly asked, “Do you still believe he needs to be restrained?” The older man looked away, suddenly ashamed that he’d supported Porthos’ decision to bind their friend’s hands and legs. Although the rational part of his brain knew that it had been necessary, he didn’t know how he would ever be able to admit his part to the Gascon and seek forgiveness.

 

Porthos shared Athos’ guilt, but could see by his friend’s body language that he needed more time to come to terms with the difficult choice they’d made. Reaching a decision, he shook his head shortly, indicating to Aramis that the Gascon could be freed.

 

Reaching out, the marksman pulled the blanket from d’Artagnan’s shoulders, folding it down at his waist as he said, “Let’s see your hands.”

 

Shakily, the Gascon lifted his gaze to the medic’s, his words too low for anyone other than his intended recipient. “Are you going to clean the scrapes now?”

 

Aramis frowned at his friend’s odd question, pausing in his movements as he asked, “What scrapes? Did you hurt yourself?”

 

“Like last time,” d’Artagnan explained, his words becoming slow and thick. “When I fell.” He’d barely finished speaking when his eyes rolled up and his head lolled to one side.

 

“d’Artagnan!” Aramis’ voice rose in concern as their friend suddenly became limp.

 

“What happened?” Athos spoke quickly, fear firmly taking place in his heart once again.

 

“I..I don’t…” the medic stammered for a moment before Porthos clasped his upper arm.

 

“Aramis, focus; d’Artagnan needs your help,” the larger man stated.

 

The medic gave a short nod before turning his attention to his patient, Porthos stepping back slightly to stand with Athos as they impatiently waited for news. Finally, Aramis turned back towards them to share his findings. “He’s unconscious again, but everything else seems fine.”

 

“How can he be fine if he’s unconscious?” Athos bit out, his worry for the younger man making his tone harsher than he’d intended.

 

Porthos reached out another steadying hand, this time placing it in the middle of Athos’ back as a warning to try and remain calm. With a much more even tone, the larger man queried, “Aramis, do you know why he’s unconscious?”

 

Trying to regain his equilibrium, and reminding himself that his friends were counting on his medical knowledge, Aramis tried to dredge up a confidence that he didn’t truly feel. “I’m not certain,” he began, catching Athos’ deeper inhale that signalled he was about to speak again. “But I’d guess it’s due to his head injury.”

 

Athos and Porthos wore matching expressions of doubt and fear, but the older man didn’t say anything further to question Aramis’ diagnosis. “But he seemed alright just now,” Porthos countered, having believed that the strike to the head hadn’t been that serious given how relatively lucidly d’Artagnan had been behaving.

 

“He was confused,” the marksman stated as he pulled his main gauche, making quick work of the ropes that encircled the young man’s limbs. He pulled the blanket back up to the Gascon’s shoulders before standing and again facing his friends. “He was confused right before he passed out,” he repeated, his brain still trying to understand the meaning of what he’d heard.

 

Athos’ curiosity was peaked, especially since Aramis seemed shaken by what had happened. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

 

“He asked me if I was going to clean the scrapes on his hands, like last time, when he fell,” the marksman replied. When Athos and Porthos remained silent, clearly not understanding the meaning of his reply, he went on. “In all the months we’ve known d’Artagnan, do either of you recall a time when he fell and cut his hands?”

 

Porthos let his silence answer for him, while Athos responded, “No, I don’t recall any such occasion.”

 

“Exactly,” Aramis stated, starting to become agitated. “I checked his hands and they’re fine. Why would he ask that if he hadn’t hurt his hands?”

 

“’Mis, what’s really going on here?” Porthos asked as the marksman began pacing.

 

As an alternate idea began to form in Athos’ mind, he asked, “Are you certain you’ve never tended to his hands following a fall?”

 

The question brought Aramis to a halt, his gaze meeting the older man’s as he shook his head in denial. “It’s not possible, Athos…is it?”

 

“What, Aramis, what’s not possible?” Porthos prompted his friend, both he and Athos sensing that there was something more that was bothering the medic.

 

“It was a long time ago,” the marksman began, glancing in d’Artagnan’s direction. “I helped a boy who’d fallen from a tree, and badly scraped his hands and knees.” A smile turned his lips upwards as he continued. “The lad couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but he was fearless. I’m actually surprised that he didn’t hurt himself worse given the height of the branch from which he fell.”

 

“His injuries seemed minor; just the scrapes and some bruises, and he talked the entire time while I accompanied him home. At the time, I thought it a miracle that he was alright. His father invited me to join them for dinner, but I declined, wanting to make it into town so I might spend the night against the warmth of some lady’s bosom.” Aramis’ face turned sombre as he went on. “I should have stayed.”

 

Porthos and Athos could see anguish now shining in the marksman’s eyes, but they dared not say anything, lest their friend stop talking. Instead, they waited patiently as Aramis pulled himself together enough to continue. “When I was leaving the next morning, word came into town that the boy had fallen unconscious and refused to wake. The father was beside himself and was searching for a physician, certain that his son was dying.” He let his head drop forward for a moment.

 

“What did you do?” Porthos asked when it became clear that their friend would stay silent unless prompted.

 

Offering a bitter smile, Aramis replied. “I left.” Taking a deep breath, he continued. “I gathered my things just as quickly as I could, and I left. I couldn’t stand the thought of his father tracking me down and telling me I’d killed his son.”

 

Porthos’ brow furrowed as he countered, “But you didn’t do anythin’ wrong.”

 

The marksman’s voice rose again as he recalled the painful memory. “Don’t you understand? He must have hit his head when he fell and I missed it. If I’d known, I would have forced his father to send for a physician straight away. With immediate help, he might have been saved.” Aramis’ tone turned slightly manic as he said, “But when I found him on the ground and asked him if he was alright, do you know what he said? He said he was _fine_.”

 

“Aramis,” Athos shifted closer to the tormented man, placing his hand on the marksman’s shoulder. “Don’t you understand what this means? If d’Artagnan really is the boy you helped all those years ago, then he lived. There was no harm, and you simply helped a boy who’d fallen from a tree.”

 

The medic shook his head as moisture filled his eyes, the old regret nearly overwhelming him. “I’ve been praying for all these years for God to forgive my selfishness that night.” He swallowed back a sob as he lifted beseeching eyes to Athos. “Do you really think it could be him?”

 

Athos nodded solemnly as he replied, “Anything is possible.”

 

Needing to know for certain so his friend might finally unburden himself, Porthos asked, “What was the boy’s name?”

 

Aramis’ eyes lightened as he vividly recalled the lad’s father calling out to his son as they’d approached the house. It was a detail he’d forgotten, but which surged forth with his friend’s question. “Charles,” he stated with awe. “His name was Charles.”


	8. Lethal White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can’t wait to deliver this whole mess squarely into Treville’s lap.” Athos stated. “The sooner, the better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great to read everyone's comments about the twist in the last chapter, and the speculation surrounding Aramis' and d'Artagnan's pasts. Hope you enjoy this next part.

It had been impossible for any of them to get any more sleep after the discovery that Aramis may have met d’Artagnan when both were much younger. The marksman had remained quiet and introspective as he’d stared into the fire, stealing the occasional glance at the Gascon. Athos and Porthos had settled nearby, keeping watch over both their friends as they discussed their plans for the day in quiet tones.

 

“This changes things,” Porthos said, looking meaningfully towards d’Artagnan.

 

Athos nodded wearily, the lack of sleep and continued pain of his wound beginning to catch up with him. “We need to get to the bottom of this.”

 

“There’s no way last night was d’Artagnan’s fault,” Porthos declared.

 

“You believe he was drugged?” Athos asked. He was surprised a moment later when a third voice entered their conversation.

 

“There’s no doubt,” Aramis replied, having moved from his solitary vigil to join them. He now settled himself so the three men formed a loose triangle. “d’Artagnan’s later confusion is easily explained by his injury, but what happened prior to that was due to something else entirely. The only question is what and how it was given to him.”

 

“You’re certain?” Porthos pressed, receiving a curt nod in response.

 

Rubbing a hand across his face, Athos squinted against the glare of the rising sun, recognizing that the others would be awake soon. “It’s not safe.”

 

“For us, or for him?” Porthos asked, motioning toward the Gascon with his chin.

 

“Does it matter?” Aramis countered.

 

Before the larger man could respond, Athos spoke. “No, it does not.” Turning his attention to the marksman, he asked, “Is it possible to identify whatever d’Artagnan was dosed with?”

 

Aramis pulled a hand through his tangled curls while he considered his friend’s question. “Possibly. I couldn’t make any more than a guess based on his symptoms…” He broke off at Athos’ upraised hand.

 

“What if we searched everyone’s bags?” the older man suggested. “Would you recognize it if we found it?”

 

“You sure you want to do that?” Porthos countered, concerned with the idea of casting doubt over the entire camp. “Why not just search Viellard’s things?”

 

“You have proof that he is to blame?” Athos pinned Porthos with a hard look for a moment, before shifting it to Aramis. “Either of you? Because if you have even one shred of evidence that will convince me that it’s unnecessary to look any further than him, I’ll happily go along.” Neither man spoke, and Athos took their silence as confirmation of what he’d already suspected – they had nothing more than doubt and a collection of suspect actions.

 

“Look, I don’t like it anymore than you do, but we need to know who’s behind this,” the older man said in a conciliatory tone.

 

“No, you’re right,” Aramis agreed. “I just hate the thought that one of our own could have done this.”

 

Porthos gave a bitter snort as he replied, “Not one of our own yet, ‘Mis. They have to pass their trainin’ first, and that’s looking pretty doubtful for at least one of them.” The other two merely nodded in agreement. “How do you want to do this?”

 

“Wake them up, line them up, and search their things,” Athos replied. “No need to go about this covertly given what happened last night.”

 

“You’re right,” Aramis offered. “I’d bet it would be more suspicious if we didn’t try to unearth the cause of d’Artagnan’s strange behaviour.”

 

“Alright,” Porthos agreed. “And then?”

 

“Then, we head back to Paris. I’m not putting anyone else’s life at risk, and I can’t wait to deliver this whole mess squarely into Treville’s lap.” Athos stated. “The sooner, the better.” 

* * *

The recruits stood in a line, their backs ramrod straight, and their faces telegraphing their disapproval of what was currently happening. Porthos was carefully observing them, ensuring that no one interfered with the search Aramis was conducting. Athos stood next to the marksman as he rifled through each recruit’s belongings, not participating, but lending a second set of eyes while he cradled his aching arm.

 

The medic had offered another pain draught when he’d seen the deep lines of pain etched around his friend’s face, but Athos had refused outright, stating that he needed a clear head to deal with whatever might result from their actions. Aramis had acquiesced, for now, but was resolute that his friend would have something before they set out for Paris.

 

“Nothing,” the marksman muttered lowly, the sound reaching Athos’ ears but no one else’s. He dropped Lebas’ saddlebag and pushed himself wearily to his feet. “Perhaps I missed something…” he began, only to stop as Athos shook his head firmly in denial.

 

“If there had been anything to find in Viellard’s belongings, you would have found it,” he stated with certainty.

 

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Aramis responded, nodding to Porthos as he approached the recruits.

 

“Doublets off, and drop your purses on the ground,” the large man ordered sternly, privately grateful for Athos’ forethought it having the recruits divest themselves of their weapons earlier.

 

“You can’t be serious!” Viellard complained loudly, making no move to comply.

 

Porthos wasted no time arguing with the other man, instead stepping forward until he was practically nose-to-nose with the recalcitrant recruit. “Do it, now, or we can do it for you.” His voice was low and dangerous, and left no doubt in the other man’s mind that the Musketeer would follow through on his threat.

 

His eyes wide and his cheeks flushing deeply with resentment, Viellard fumbled with the clasps of his doublet, shrugging out of the garment and throwing it angrily to the ground in front of him. At his first motion to comply, the others quickly followed suit, and Aramis waited until all of them had been divested of their outerwear before moving forward to pick up Viellard’s doublet. The recruit threw him a dirty look as he stepped back to start looking through the pockets. “Will you be subjecting _your_ belongings to a search as well?” Viellard spat, his hostility eminently apparent.

 

“Actually,” Aramis said slowly, “that won’t be necessary.” He held a small paper sachet in one hand and had draped the leather garment over his other arm. Unfolding the top of the small, paper envelope, he looked inside before sniffing carefully at the contents. Wetting the tip of one finger, he dipped it inside, removing a small amount of the powder so he could cautiously taste it. With a grimace at the flavour, he spat to one side, not wanting to ingest any of it. His expression turned dark as he muttered angrily under his breath.

 

Noting the marksman’s strong reaction, Porthos and Athos traded inquiring looks before the latter man spoke. “Aramis, what is it? What’s wrong?”

 

He looked up from the sachet in his hand, angrily crumpling it in his fist as he replied, “Salvia divinorum, more commonly known as lethal white.” When his two friends continued staring at him expectantly, Aramis clarified. “It’s a strong hallucinogenic. Relatively fast-acting, and luckily quick to loosen its hold on its victim. In small amounts, it’s used to help people connect with loved ones who’ve passed.” Porthos eyebrow rose at the odd comment, and Aramis merely shrugged in reply, unwilling to get into a debate about the strange practice. “It’s meant to help loosen the grip of the mortal realm on the one ingesting it, supposedly allowing them to communicate with their dearly departed.”

 

At that, Porthos could no longer contain his disbelief, snorting as he muttered under his breath, “Poppycock.”

 

Aramis smiled briefly until Athos interjected. “Why lethal white? Could this have killed d’Artagnan?”

 

“No,” the marksman quickly replied. “It refers to the behaviours that can result. The hallucinations produced can be very powerful, and in some cases, those affected have acted violently.” Aramis trailed off with his explanation, knowing that nothing further needed to be said given d’Artagnan’s attempt to kill Athos the previous night.

 

Their discussion was interrupted by Viellard, who’d been watching the scene with a mix of confusion and indignation. Unable to remain silent any longer, he said, “That’s not mine. I don’t know what it is or where it came from, but…” He stopped in his tracks when Porthos approached, gripping his upper arm in a steely grip before yanking him forward.

 

“What do we do with him?” the large man asked, addressing his question to Athos.

 

“Restrain him until we’ve broken camp,” the older man replied without hesitation.

 

“Why?” a new voice asked, before anyone had a chance to move. As one, the Inseparables’ heads swivelled towards the newcomer, faced with a pale and shaky looking Gascon.

 

Despite the tension in the air, Athos softened his tone as he replied, “Why what, d’Artagnan?”

 

The Gascon’s attention was firmly fixed on Viellard, and he addressed his response to the recruit. “Why did you do it?”

 

Faced with his apparent victim, Viellard spluttered as he attempted to answer. “I didn’t _do_ anything.”

 

Ignoring the other man’s words, d’Artagnan went on. “What have I done to make you hate me so? Has it all been you?”

 

Now it was Viellard’s turn to look shocked as he processed the meaning of the Gascon’s question. “You mean all of _your_ mistakes? You think I had something to do with your broken girth strap, with your pistol not firing…” He broke off for a moment as he tried to regain his balance, the events implicating him unfolding with such speed that he was barely able to keep up. “Why would I do that? Any of it? I’m just a recruit on a training mission.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed dazed as he stared at the other man, waiting for answers that were apparently going to be denied to him. Behind Viellard, the other recruits were starting to shift uncomfortably as they continued to stand at attention, while clearly uncomfortable with what was happening.

 

Taking charge, Athos ordered, “Porthos, get him restrained, preferably out of our sight.” He glanced meaningfully in d’Artagnan’s direction, hoping the large man would understand. Porthos offered a short nod in reply, confirming that he’d received the unspoken message to move the recruit away from the Gascon. “Aramis, please check on d’Artagnan and confirm he’s fit to ride. The rest of you,” he addressed the recruits. “Collect your things and break camp. We’re leaving as soon as you’re done.”

 

With that, he turned his back on the trainees, trusting they would do as they’d been told, and headed towards Aramis and d’Artagnan. The young man had slept through the remainder of the night, barely rousing enough to satisfy Aramis on the two occasions he’d prodded the younger man to wakefulness. Now that they’d ferreted out the saboteur in their midst, it was time to confirm that the Gascon hadn’t suffered any long-lasting effects. 

* * *

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked once he’d gotten d’Artagnan settled on a nearby tree stump. He was crouching in front of the Gascon, examining his young friend’s eyes as he posed the question. While the Gascon looked much better than he had several hours ago, he still seemed somewhat disconnected from reality, and his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. “Are you hot?” he questioned, noting the coolness of the air around them, which hadn’t yet been warmed by the day’s sun.

 

“Hmm,” the Gascon replied. Aramis frowned at the unsatisfactory response and watched as d’Artagnan shrugged out of the blanket that had remained carelessly around his shoulders. “It’s warm.”

 

Filing that piece of information away for later, the medic progressed in his examination. “How do you feel otherwise? Any pain or nausea?”

 

d’Artagnan seemed to think for a moment before replying. “My head hurts.”

 

Aramis leaned forward slowly, telegraphing his intention, and gently probed at the bruising around his friend’s eye. “I’m surprised that hasn’t completely swollen shut,” he commented, somewhat to himself.

 

“Why did he do it?” d’Artagnan asked, bringing his unfocused gaze to the medic’s face.

 

“Well, you weren’t really yourself last night,” the marksman replied, leaning back on his haunches.

 

The Gascon’s expression shifted to one of deeper confusion as he grasped on to his friend’s words. “What do you mean? Did something happen last night?”

 

Athos had been standing a few feet away, observing as Aramis had examined their friend. At d’Artagnan’s questions, he stepped closer. “What do you remember?”

 

The Gascon’s brow furrowed as he struggled to pull information from his spotty memory. For some reason, his mind dredged up sensations of floating, and hazy images that refused to focus, no matter how much he concentrated. Finally admitting that he couldn’t remember anything of consequence, he replied, “I’m not sure. Nothing I remember makes any sense. Kind of like a dream that slips away from you once you’ve woken.”

 

Aramis nodded in understanding. “I’m sure that’s what it feels like.” Turning his attention momentarily to Athos, he explained, “What he’s describing isn’t unusual with this plant. I’d be more surprised if he recalled any of what he did last night.”

 

The medic’s words had sparked a flash of panic in d’Artagnan’s chest, and there was suddenly nothing more important that knowing what Aramis was referring to. “What did I do?” he demanded. His gaze moved from the marksman to Athos, noting the hesitation in his mentor’s features before moving downwards to catalogue the odd way in which he was holding his left arm. Struggling to his feet, d’Artagnan closed the distance between himself and the older man, his hand pushing at the shoulder of Athos’ doublet. “d’Artagnan, stop.” Athos said, making the younger man pause and drop his hand.

 

Glancing at Aramis, Athos saw a look of resignation on his friend’s face, encouraging him to be honest with the Gascon. With a sigh, the older man carefully slid his arm out of his doublet, exposing the ruined left shirtsleeve, under which sat a bandage. d’Artagnan’s hand rose once again, his fingers moving slowly toward the white linen that peeked through the rip in Athos’ shirt. He stopped himself before actually touching his mentor’s arm, lifting his eyes to the older man as he said, “I did that.”

 

Behind him, Aramis placed his hand on the Gascon’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It wasn’t your fault. You’d been drugged.” Several long seconds passed before d’Artagnan gave a slow nod, but the marksman couldn’t see the devastation in the young man’s eyes. From where Athos stood, he could clearly see the guilt and desolation that colored d’Artagnan’s features. He was certain that the Gascon had only nodded in an attempt to stop the medic’s sympathetic words.

 

Deciding that they’d need to deal with the young man’s mental state later, he said, “Aramis, is d’Artagnan fit to ride?”

 

Almost surprised by the question, the medic regrouped quickly to respond, “Yes, I believe he’ll be fine. No galloping, mind, and I’d like one of us to ride with him, but I don’t see any reason to delay our departure.”

 

“Good,” Athos gave a nod of approval. “I’ll go check on the status of the others while you help d’Artagnan pack his things.”

 

Aramis dipped his chin agreeably. “Fine. That will give me time to prepare a pain draught.”

 

Athos winced at the medic’s words, noting from the corner of his eye how d’Artagnan flinched at Aramis’ comment. Not wanting to draw further attention to either the Gascon’s discomfort or his own, Athos gave a short nod before walking off in search of Porthos.

 

Left alone with the Gascon, Aramis led the young man over to where their saddlebags sat, before opening his to begin rummaging for the ingredients he required. Deciding that the best approach was to keep d’Artagnan busy, he handed over the items he’d be using, the Gascon taking them automatically.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis began as he took a small amount of dried herbs from one pouch, adding them to the cup that the young man held. “Do you remember any of our conversation when you woke up in the middle of the night?”

 

The Gascon’s free hand rose to his head, his fingers pressing gently against the damaged skin around his eye, before wincing and dropping his hand again. Seeing the look of pain on his friend’s face, Aramis reached for a second cup to which he added another measure of his herb mixture. With both hands now full, d’Artagnan frowned momentarily before giving a slight shake. “No, not really.” Moments passed before an expression of horror appeared on the Gascon’s face. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything stupid.”

 

“No, nothing like that,” the medic assured as he took one cup from d’Artagnan’s hands and began grinding the herbs into a fine powder. “But you did say something odd that I wanted to ask you about. You asked me if I was going to tend to the scrapes on your hands.”

 

The Gascon raised his free hand to examine it, before replying, “There’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

 

“Yes, that’s what I discovered, too,” the medic responded, trading one cup for the other. Changing tact, he queried, “Do you recall falling from a tree as a child. I believe you would have been about seven or eight at the time, and a stranger happened upon you and escorted you home. Afterwards, you fell into a deep sleep and could not be roused.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a slight shrug. “Not really, although I think I know what you’re referring to. Father told about a time when I’d hurt my head and wouldn’t wake for two days. I don’t really remember any of it, and I don’t honestly know what happened, but he refused to let me climb trees for several years afterwards. I always got the impression that I’d scared him, badly. Why do you ask?”

 

Aramis hesitated, wondering if his need to know outweighed any potential damage he might inflict by admitting his part in the young man’s past. “I believe that I may have been the stranger who found you.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes lit up with renewed interest. “Really? How incredible to think that we’d met before and didn’t realize it.”

 

The marksman’s expression lightened at his friend’s response, before he recalled the initial source of his guilt. “Actually, the experience wasn’t exactly a highlight for me.” As soon as the words had left his lips, he knew he’d said the wrong thing, the crestfallen look on his friend’s face reinforcing his conclusion. “No, I didn’t mean meeting you, I meant how I’d left things.” d’Artagnan’s expression turned inquisitive, and Aramis knew he’d need to press on know that he’d begun to share his story.

 

“After I brought you home and left you in your father’s care, I went into town to seek some companionship,” he blushed momentarily as he recalled the nubile, young woman he’d spent the night with.

 

Knowing the marksman’s tastes for beautiful women, the Gascon remarked, “So you were acting true to your nature.” For a moment, Aramis was about to protest, until he caught the glint of amusement in his friend’s eyes.

 

“Yes, I suppose I was.” He sighed as he prepared to relate the rest of the tale. “I was young, and had just left home to make my way in the world. Probably a little younger than you were when you came to Paris,” Aramis reflected. “Anyway, I’d checked you over for injuries, but apart from your scraped hands and knees, you’d said you were fine.” The medic gave d’Artagnan an accusatory glance, and the Gascon grinned sheepishly as he ducked his head at the familiar response.

 

“It wasn’t until the next day that I found out that you’d been hurt worse than anyone had realized, and instead of going back and apologizing to your father, I left as quickly as I could,” the marksman ended his story. “Until last night, I had no idea that you were that young boy, or even that you’d survived.” For several moments, silence reined between them, and Aramis bit his lip as he waited for the anger he was sure would come.

 

“And you think that being drugged caused me to remember what happened?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

 The marksman shrugged as he replied. “It’s possible.”

 

“If I truly am that boy, then you have nothing to feel guilty about,” d’Artagnan said, placing a hand on his friend’s upper arm. “It was a long time ago, and clearly no harm was done.”

 

The marksman was shaking his head as he countered the young man’s words. “No, you don’t understand. I should have gone back to check on you. Obviously, I missed something and it was my fault that you didn’t receive proper care earlier.”

 

At that, d’Artagnan huffed and would have rolled his eyes if it hadn’t been for the fact that his left one ached from Viellard’s punch. “Aramis, do you honestly believe that you could have found an injury that I was trying to hide?” Before the marksman could answer, the Gascon continued. “I was forever finding trouble, and I can assure you that our meeting wasn’t the first time I’d fallen from a tree. As a matter of fact, I’m fairly certain that my father had forbidden me from climbing them by that point,” he added, somewhat sheepishly.

 

“But I’d thought you dead for all these years,” Aramis began, stopping when the Gascon squeezed his arm.

 

With all the sincerity he could muster, d’Artagnan responded, “Then I’m grateful that I was drugged last night. At least, this way, you can stop carrying that guilt with you since you know that I’m fine.”

 

The Gascon held Aramis’ gaze for several long seconds, silently pleading with him to accept the gift that was being offered. Finally, the marksman’s lips quirked in a smile and he nodded, d’Artagnan responding in kind. Turning back to the draughts he’d been mixing, Aramis pinned d’Artagnan with a serious look. “Don’t think I’m going to let you fool me again by telling me that you’re fine. Now, let’s finish these so you and Athos can both start feeling better.”


	9. Broken Marionettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments later, after examining the young man, Porthos lifted his face upwards and gave a single shake of his head to communicate his findings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to Viellard getting caught, and the speculation surrounding him. Hope you like this next part.

The day had warmed as the sun had risen, and d’Artagnan found himself once more squinting against the brightness. It was a strange reminder of their ride out, just a few days ago, and yet it seemed that a lifetime had passed since that day. Sighing, he grimaced at the unwelcome ache in his side, an ever-present reminder of his broken rib. At least the throbbing of his skull had abated after he’d consumed the pain draught that Aramis had pressed on him, the medic refusing to leave him alone until he’d presented the empty cup. Athos had offered him a knowing smirk as he’d consumed his own share of the medic’s bitter brew.

 

True to the older man’s words, they’d departed just as soon as their things had been packed. Under his mentor’s scrutiny, the Gascon had slipped into his doublet, his body finally able to regulate its temperature, and gratefully accepted his weapons, being told simply that he’d misplaced them the night prior. Again, he had the odd sense that his friends were keeping something from him, but he decided not to press them for more. As it was, he was barely able to make eye contact with Athos without flinching when he noted the way in which his friend held his injured arm.

 

Before he knew it, d’Artagnan had been chivvied onto his horse and they were on their way. It wasn’t until they’d been riding for over an hour that he turned his attention outwards to take in his surroundings. Once he did, he realized that he and Athos had been placed in the middle of their group, with Aramis and two of the recruits leading the way, and Porthos and his charges following at their rear. The Gascon found the arrangement strange for a moment, until he realized that Porthos was also keeping an eye on Viellard, their positions effectively kept the latter man from his sight. d’Artagnan couldn’t help but be grateful at his friends’ consideration.

 

Although he and Athos rode beside one another, they were separated by several feet, neither man making any move to close the gap between them. d’Artagnan squeezed his eyes closed for a moment at the thought that his mentor didn’t want to speak with him, any more than he wanted to speak with the other man. Of course, their reasons were wildly different. For the Gascon, he worried about the anger that the other man must have towards him, given his series of mistakes, culminating in having shot his best friend. That he might have killed the man sped up the beating of his heart and he took a couple deeper breaths to slow it down.

 

Glancing surreptitiously in Athos’ direction, he imagined that the neutral expression on his friend’s face must be hiding the disappointment and hurt he was feeling at the discovery that d’Artagnan was a poor Musketeer, and even poorer brother in arms. Again, he found his heart thumping painfully in response, and swallowed thickly as he tried to compose himself. d’Artagnan desperately wanted to apologize and explain, but found that his mouth grew dry every time he tried. He’d actually attempted to start a conversation several times since they’d started out, but found the words disappearing into thin air before he could voice them. Sullenly, he pressed his lips together into a thin line as his internal debate continued.

 

“d’Artagnan, stop gawping like a fish out of water and tell me what’s bothering you already,” Athos commanded, startling the young man.

 

While he’d been wool gathering, the older man had moved closer and was now waiting expectantly for the Gascon to speak. Without thought, d’Artagnan found his mouth snapping closed, surprised to find that it had remained open as he’d tried to summon the courage to speak.

 

Noting that his young friend needed further encouragement, Athos cleared his throat and said, “I owe you an apology. I fear I was too quick to judge what was happening, and didn’t extend you the benefit of the doubt, as a good leader should. I’m sorry for that, d’Artagnan.”

 

The Gascon heard the words, but struggled to comprehend their meaning. Firstly, why would Athos be apologizing? The older man had done nothing wrong, and had been well within his rights to scold him for the mistakes he’d made. A momentary wisp of a thought passed through his mind as he wondered whether the errors had actually been his fault. No, his mind ruthlessly interjected; the mistakes had been his and he needed to take responsibility for what had happened. Privately agreeing with his latter conclusion, he moved on to the second reason why Athos’ apology was out of place – the older man was the victim not the aggressor.

 

Aramis had briefly described the hallucinations that he’d suffered, explaining that the powder he’d found would have made it impossible for the Gascon to discern between fantasy and reality. Additionally, the marksman had praised him for his quick thinking and willingness to place himself in harm’s way to protect the life of one of his brothers. d’Artagnan had been so sickened at the reminder that he could have killed Athos, that he’d nearly vomited. Luckily, the medic was well-acquainted with the signs and had withdrawn without any further words, leaving the Gascon to pull himself together.

 

Athos had observed d’Artagnan as he’d first drawn closer and then prompted the young man to speak. With nothing forthcoming, he’d changed tactics and extended his own apology, hoping that his protégé would be in a forgiving mood. He’d expected the Gascon to protest, allowing them to delve further into the rift that currently separated the two of them, but he hadn’t expected his friend to go silent and progressively grow more pale. Concerned that the young man was taking a turn for the worse, he shifted his horse even closer, reaching over to grip his protégé’s lower arm as he asked, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The Gascon flinched at the unexpected contact, shaking off the hand that had suddenly appeared. He looked up in time to see the grimace of pain on Athos’ face, realizing only then that it had been his friend’s injured arm that had been extended toward him. “Sorry,” he mumbled quickly, horrified that his actions had just made things worse.

 

“There’s no need,” Athos said softly. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

 

A nervous giggle bubbled forth from d’Artagnan’s chest. Although his brain knew that the sound was out of place, he seemed unable to stop it. The awful giggling continued for several seconds before he managed to draw a faltering breath, putting an end to the odd laughter with an indrawn sob.

 

“Do you want me to get Aramis?” Athos asked, well and truly baffled by the Gascon’s behaviour, and beginning to worry that the drug he’d been dosed with had done permanent harm.

 

Sucking in a hitched breath, d’Artagnan gave his head a minute shake. “No, I’m alright. I don’t need Aramis.”

 

Athos’ expression showed that he was unconvinced, but he let the matter drop, allowing an awkward silence to fall between them. Anxiously worrying his bottom lip, d’Artagnan finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Athos.” He wanted to say more, but his mouth was once again abandoning him, refusing to form the words that his brain was screaming at him to voice.

 

“What are you apologizing for?” Athos asked evenly, causing the young man’s heart to drop as he realized that his friend was forcing him to go into greater detail.

 

Without making eye contact, the Gascon choked out, “For shooting you.”

 

“I agree that you owe me an apology,” Athos replied, “but not for shooting me.”

 

That got d’Artagnan’s attention, and he turned to face his friend so quickly that the scenery around him shifted and swayed alarmingly for a moment, before the compromised vision in his swollen left eye caught up. “What do you mean?” he asked with trepidation, certain that he didn’t actually want to know the answer.

 

“Has the Captain been unclear that all injuries are to be reported?” the older man questioned, guiding his protégé to the true source of his anger. While it was true that he’d been unhappy with the apparent mistakes d’Artagnan had been making, he was now certain that Viellard’s duplicity was to blame for those. That extended to the Gascon’s hallucinations, at which point he’d discharged his weapon and mistakenly wounded one of his brothers in arms. Athos had already forgiven all of that, not even having been mad at his friend for the last incident. But hiding the injury d’Artagnan had received at Viellard’s hand was not something he was ready to forgive, or forget.

 

Glancing at the Gascon, Athos could see that the earlier look of anxiety on his friend’s face was slowly morphing to one of stubborn acceptance. He knew from experience that if he allowed this new emotion to take root, then there would be no way of getting through to the young man. Instead, he needed to keep his friend off balance long enough to accomplish what he’d started. “Have I done something to make you distrust me?”

 

The non-sequitur did exactly what Athos had hoped, bringing a look of surprise to the Gascon’s face. As Athos had hoped, d’Artagnan’s response was purely instinctive as he blurted out, “Of course, I trust you. Why would you ask such a thing?”

 

The older man worked to keep a satisfied smile from his features as he shrugged. “I’ve been having difficulty understanding why you didn’t tell me about the training incident with Viellard. I’d assumed we were friends, and friends share this kind of information with each other.” Athos could practically feel the heat as d’Artagnan’s face burned with embarrassment, and he was certain he wouldn’t have to wait long for the young man’s indignant side to flare. When the Gascon became contrite instead, he wondered if he’d miscalculated.

 

“I wasn’t certain you’d still call me _friend_ by that point,” d’Artagnan admitted lowly.

 

Startled by the admission, Athos realized his earlier behaviour had been more damaging to the young man’s esteem than he’d thought. Softening his tone, he set about remedying the situation. “Surely you don’t think me fickle enough to withdraw my friendship over a few mistakes?” The Gascon appeared to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders as he shook his head in reply to his friend’s query. “Why, then?” Athos pressed. He waited several long seconds before prompting the younger man yet again. “d’Artagnan?”

 

Taking as deep a breath as his sore flank would allow, the Gascon answered. “Because I thought you’d discovered that you’d been wrong about me.”

 

‘Oh,’ Athos thought to himself, slightly shocked that the younger man now echoed the very words that had consumed his mind just a few days prior. Had he withdrawn from his friend to such an extent that the Gascon had doubted his fidelity? Had his doubts been so clear that, even when unspoken, his intuitive protégé had been aware they existed? The idea that he’d contributed to d’Artagnan’s suffering made Athos’ stomach flip uncomfortably, and forced him to search for the words that would make things right between them.

 

“No, d’Artagnan, I wasn’t wrong,” Athos stated confidently. “I was merely confused because I’d forgotten what a talented young man you are, and how exceptionally proficient you’ve become.” For the first time since he’d discovered the accidental shooting, the Gascon met Athos’ eyes, and the older man was pleased to see a new spark of life flaring within the brown orbs.

 

“How can you say that given all the mistakes I’ve made,” d’Artagnan countered, his face hopeful even as he tried to dissuade the older man.

 

“Although Viellard hasn’t admitted anything, I’m certain we’ll find he’s responsible for all of your recent _bad luck_ ,” Athos replied, his expression hardening as he was reminded of all the trouble the recruit had caused.

 

d’Artagnan seemed to be weighing his friend’s words as a cry rent the air. Both men turned in their saddles, seeking out the source of the shout, when another familiar sound alerted them to danger. As the echo of the shot faded away, Aramis and Porthos could be heard chivvying their charges to close ranks, creating a loose circle where they stood. The marksman’s head swiveled constantly as he sought out the source of threat, while the remaining Inseparables waited for him to speak. His keen eyes spotted the lone gunman who’d been close enough to wing Jaccoud, before spying the man’s comrades in the distance. “They’re surrounding us!” Aramis shouted as men emerged from the trees, and moments later, his statement was confirmed as riders seemed to approach from every direction.

 

Athos and d’Artagnan had initially remained in the centre of their group, but now moved outwards to join the ranks of their brothers. “Face outwards and protect the men on either side of you,” Athos ordered as he took position next to Porthos. “Hold your shots until Aramis gives the order.” Across the circle from him, the marksman gave a short nod of assent that he’d heard the older man’s instruction, pulling his harquebus from its holster as he prepared to take aim.

 

“Let me go.” Viellard’s protestations broke the silence that had fallen over the Musketeers. “How am I to defend myself with my hands bound?”

 

“Be quiet,” Porthos hissed angrily, not in the least bit upset at the thought that the man might get hurt.

 

“You can’t leave me like this,” Viellard continued, completely ignoring the larger man’s words. “At least give me a fighting chance.”

 

Porthos was about to admonish the recruit again when Athos interjected. “How do we know we can trust you?”

 

About to protest his innocence again, Viellard paused for a moment, instead indicating the approaching riders. “What better incentive to stand together than a common enemy?”

 

Athos considered the man’s words for a moment before acquiescing. “Porthos, release his hands.”

 

“Athos, no,” Porthos countered, unwilling to let the man free.

 

“Do it,” Athos replied, his eyes never moving from the looming threat. When the large man made no move to comply, he shifted his attention to Viellard. “If you cross us, I’ll make sure that Porthos personally makes you regret it. Are we clear?” At the recruit’s shaky nod, Athos glanced at the large man. “Release him, but keep an eye on him to make sure he remembers which side he’s on.”

 

With a resigned sigh, Porthos pulled his main gauche free and cut through the ropes wrapped around Viellard’s wrists. The recruit took a moment to rub the abraded skin before pulling his weapon, aiming in the general direction of the riders, but holding his shot until Aramis’ order. Time seemed to stand still, even though they waited only a few seconds before the marksman let his shot fly. One of the enemy satisfyingly fell from his horse as Aramis’ ball struck its intended target. A few feet away from the marksman, d’Artagnan took a steadying breath in a vain effort to calm his adrenaline-fueled heart. Another maddeningly quick skip of his heart and Aramis was shouting, “Fire!”

 

The Gascon led his target before squeezing his pistol’s trigger. His target swayed and then toppled from his horse, and d’Artagnan barely managed to duck down before the raiders attacking them fired in response. He heard more cries of pain surrounding him, but things were moving too quickly for him to note who was among the injured. Instead, he pulled his sword free and slid from his horse, stepping forward several paces to meet his next opponent.

 

The sounds of clashing steel and panted breaths were all around them, but the Inseparables maintained their focus, doing as Athos had commanded and trying to watch over the one or two men closest to them. Aramis and d’Artagnan soon moved further apart, occasionally losing track of Jaccoud and Lebas. Farther away, Athos and Porthos stayed close, doing their best to remain aware of Petit and Viellard.

 

They’d been caught by surprise, and by Athos’ count, they faced more than a dozen men. Thank God for the Musketeers’ well-aimed shots which had reduced their enemies’ numbers in their initial volley. Once their pistols were spent, there was no time to reload, and the majority of the men soon found themselves on the ground engaged in swordfights. Those who’d remained in their saddles didn’t stay there for long, and Athos noted the sound of another body thudding to the ground in his periphery.

 

Their opponents were savage in their attack, and for a fleeting moment, the former comte wondered if there was any way for them to win the skirmish. Only half their numbers were seasoned soldiers, and of those, two were fighting injured. He had no doubt that the recruits would do their best, but he wasn’t confident that their best would suffice. The thought brought his attention back to Viellard, and as he dispatched his opponent by slicing his throat, he took a moment to look around for the man in question.

 

The recruit seemed to be holding his own, and for now, he was fighting alongside the Musketeers instead of against them. Athos’ gaze caught Porthos’ and the larger man nodded curtly, both men satisfied that Viellard wasn’t currently a threat. Turning around, Athos engaged with a new opponent, grunting in pain when he had to deflect a blow aimed at his head with his wounded arm.

 

As soon as the sound left his chest, Athos knew he was in trouble. His attacker had zeroed in on it and his eyes lit up with glee at having discovered his opponent’s weakness. Athos did his best to compensate, turning his body to protect his injury, but the bandit turned with him, continually harassing his left side until he landed another strike. The blow brought tears to the Musketeer’s eyes, but he resolutely resisted the urge to bring his occupied right hand up to the injury.

 

Breathing heavily, he spun away again, his steps becoming heavy with exertion and pain. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat, and he ached to brush it away, but had no free hand with which to do so. Another lunge from his attacker had Athos crying out in pain, no longer able to swallow the sounds. He found his knees suddenly unable to hold him, and desperately raised his sword to block the strike coming towards his neck.

 

The raider let out a mirthless laugh as he swiped Athos’ blade aside, the Musketeer’s arm dropping heavily as he nearly faceplanted. He was about to die, and an overwhelming wave of regret swept over him as he mourned all of the things he would never get to do. When the wave passed, peace flowed into its place, and Athos would have closed his eyes if it wasn’t for the fact that he was determined to meet his killer’s gaze. Resolutely, he stared at the other man, noting the cruel grin stretched over rotted teeth, as the bandit raised his sword and prepared to deliver a killing blow.

 

A second later, a pistol fired, and the raider’s face changed to confusion as he slowly began to fall forward. Athos barely managed to move aside in time to avoid being pinned by the man’s body as it collapsed bonelessly in front of him. Stunned by his sudden change of fortune, Athos lifted his gaze from the dead man to search out his savior, his eyes landing on Viellard. The recruit lifted his pistol into the air, shouting triumphantly as he did so, “Less than two minutes to reload and fire.”

 

Despite the gravity of their situation, Athos’ lips began to quirk upwards, his expression changing swiftly to horror as the recruit collapsed forward in a terrible parody of his own opponent’s death. As Viellard struck the ground, Athos could just make out the hilt of the dagger that protruded from the young man’s back, thrown by one of the few remaining bandits. The man who’d felled Viellard had only a moment to celebrate as Porthos moved swiftly behind him, and savagely pulled his dagger across the criminal’s throat.

 

As he let the body fall, the large man met Athos’ gaze before moving forward to check on the recruit. Moments later, after examining the young man, Porthos lifted his face upwards and gave a single shake of his head to communicate his findings – Viellard was dead. Shaken by unexpected death, Athos forced himself to focus on the present, using his sword to push himself to his feet.

 

There were bodies all around them, but those dearest to him were still alive and standing. Porthos looked angry, as he often did after being forced to fight for his life. He’d moved to stand over Jaccoud, who was being tended by Lebas. Farther away, Aramis had begun doing his usual checks on their enemies, unable to leave any man wounded and in agony without at least trying to ease their pain.

 

d’Artagnan stood on the edge of their battlefield, his posture oddly tense, and Athos wondered if his rib had suffered additional damage in the fight. As he watched, the Gascon’s mouth seemed to move, but Athos was too far away to hear what he was saying. Slowly, he began moving towards his friend, wanting to confirm that the other man was alright. As he closed the distance between them, d’Artagnan seemed to stiffen further, and Athos suddenly stopped as the wrongness of what he was seeing struck him.

 

“d’Artagnan,” he called out, needing some assurance from his friend that he was just imagining things. When none came, he moved into motion once more, only to watch dumfounded as the Gascon crumpled to the ground.


	10. Friends in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, it was the four of them against an unknown enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger in the last chapter, and thanks for the comments about our bad guy. Hope you enjoy this next part!

d’Artagnan had found himself flagging almost immediately after they’d engaged their enemy. His side ached, making each breath a struggle, while the pain in his head flared anew at his exertion. Despite his poor physical condition, he was determined to push through, unwilling to let himself be the weak link in the Musketeers’ bid to defend themselves. As he dispatched his first opponent, he threw a quick glance to his side, confirming that Aramis was doing well and Jaccoud was holding his own, in spite of the fact that he’d been wounded by their attackers’ opening volley.

 

He swiftly inserted himself to Lebas’ right, the recruit having somehow ended up with two opponents and valiantly trying to defend himself against the dual attack. The recruit offered a quick nod of thanks before refocusing on his foe, and d’Artagnan allowed instinct to take over as he thrusted and parried his way to another victory. Soon, the ground was littered with the bodies of their enemy, and the Gascon took a moment to catch his breath, air heaving in and out of his chest, and pushing his broken rib beyond its comfortable range. He wiped the back of one hand across his forehead in an effort to remove the sweat from his brow, some of which had already stung his eyes.

 

He kept his right hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword as he took his momentary break, scanning the area around him to identify the next immediate threat. When he came up empty, he allowed himself to minutely relax, turning his attention to his brothers-in-arms. His mind idly catalogued the location of each recruit, and more importantly, each of the Inseparables, his breath coming more easily when he registered that all of them were safe. He slid his main gauche into its spot at his back, before sheathing his long blade, and making note of the fact that he’d need to clean both later.

 

Scanning the battlefield once more, he laid eyes on Athos, the older man just clambering to his feet. He noted the difficulty with which the older man was accomplishing the task, and set out towards his friend to confirm that he was alright. d’Artagnan had managed only a couple steps when his forward motion was arrested. Someone had approached from behind, and the Gascon was startled to find that he hadn’t even noticed. Now, that someone had grabbed hold of his doublet, and had jerked him to a halt.

 

As d’Artagnan grunted with the suddenness of his stop, his next instinct was to turn and see who was behind him. A blade at his throat convinced him otherwise. “Eyes front,” a voice hissed in his ear, making the Gascon frown, but halting his attempts to identify his attacker.

 

When it became apparent that d’Artagnan was following his instructions, the unknown man began to speak. “You never should have been allowed to train with the Musketeers, let alone become one of them. I’d heard that Treville had lowered his standards, but never expected to find someone of your lowly status among the King’s elite guard.” At that, the Gascon flinched and tried to turn again, but the man behind him had shifted his hold, his fingers tightly entangled in d’Artagnan’s hair. The Gascon grunted in pain as the man used his grip to keep him in place.

 

“Mangy dogs like you have no place in the regiment, and I’m only too happy to be the one to correct Treville’s mistake,” the man continued.

 

Seconds later, d’Artagnan felt an intense pressure at his side, the sensation pulling a low moan from his chest. The feeling sharpened and he stiffened against the pain, his vision momentarily whiting out. The world around him was beginning to blur while his vision was darkening at the edges. From a great distance, he thought he heard someone calling his name, but his mouth refused to obey his commands to answer them. Between one heartbeat and the next, his legs lost all their strength, and he felt himself falling. Before he could register his impact with the ground, blackness had overwhelmed his senses and he tumbled into unconsciousness.

* * *

When d’Artagnan collapsed, Athos’ heart had skipped a beat. All the air was suddenly gone from his chest, leaving him feeling confused and light-headed. His stared with wide eyes at the Gascon’s still form, stumbling forward a few steps before dropping once more to his knees. Out of nowhere, Porthos appeared, the large man speaking soothingly as he gripped his friend’s arm. “It’s alright, Athos, I’ve got you.”

 

He managed to tear his eyes away from the Gascon to meet Porthos’ concerned gaze. “d’Artagnan.” It was all he could manage as his body rebelled from all the demands he’d placed on it.

 

“Aramis has got him,” Porthos soothed, maintaining his hold on his unsteady friend.

 

When Athos had shouted the Gascon’s name, the two other members of the Inseparables had looked his way before shifting their attention from the older man to his protégé, just in time to see the latter man’s tumble to the ground. Without thought, Porthos had headed for Athos, while the marksman had moved to d’Artagnan’s side, instinctively understanding that both their friends were in trouble.

 

As Porthos steadied Athos, he automatically noted his friend’s pale and clammy features, feeling the fine tremors running up and down the length of the older man’s arm. He’d hoped they might avoid such an outcome, but was at the same time unsurprised by it, knowing how hard Athos had been pushing himself since it became apparent d’Artagnan was in danger.

 

Momentarily shifting his gaze, Porthos looked towards Aramis, seeking some sign from the other man about the Gascon’s condition. He had no idea why the young man had suddenly collapsed, and could only pray that whatever had happened wasn’t serious. “d’Artagnan,” Athos repeated weakly, obviously in distress and needing to know what was happening with the young man.

 

Worrying his lower lip for a moment, Porthos assessed the distance separating them from Aramis and d’Artagnan. Returning his eyes to Athos’ face, he evaluated his friend’s condition, coming to the conclusion that the older man would likely improve if he was nearer the Gascon. “Alright, Athos, we’ll head over and have a look,” he said. “But, I need your help, and you’d better not pass out on me if you want to see what’s going on with the boy.”

 

Athos nodded, gathering his strength to move rather than wasting it on unnecessary words. He had every faith that his friend would get him to the Gascon’s side. Porthos adjusted his grip and smoothly brought them both to their feet, his muscles straining as he held the older man upright. Athos’ head hung between his shoulders for several seconds as he waited for the swaying ground to settle beneath his feet, offering a feeble nod when he was ready to move.

 

Porthos moved them both forward, while the older man simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He’d hoped to be feeling better once he was up, but instead he felt shaky and weak. “Let me do most of the work, Athos,” the larger man soothed as he bore the majority of his friend’s weight.

 

Porthos stopped a few feet short of Aramis’ position, ensuring that neither he nor Athos would get in the medic’s way. As they watched, the marksman finished undoing the clasp on d’Artagnan’s doublet, slipping a hand beneath the leather for a moment. When he withdrew it, his fingers were covered in red, and a curse slipped past his lips at the sight.

 

Looking up at Porthos, Aramis asked, referring to the older man, “Is he alright to be set down?”

 

With a mildly annoyed expression, the large man responded, “Was kind of hoping you could tell me.”

 

With a small huff, the marksman pushed himself to his feet, stepping closer to have a better look at the former comte. “Do you know where we are?” he asked, without preamble. At Athos’ nod, he continued. “Know your name, and who we are?” Another dip of the chin was the only reply. “Feeling dizzy and lightheaded?” At this, Athos swallowed, unwilling to risk moving his head again, lest the sensations he was feeling were exacerbated.

 

With a sigh, Aramis turned to Porthos and said, “He’s fine.” At the large man’s raised eyebrow, the medic flapped a hand at him before turning back to the Gascon. “Alright, not fine, but well enough to wait until I’ve dealt with d’Artagnan. Now, put him down and come give me a hand.”

 

Porthos knew there was no arguing with Aramis once he got into medic mode, so he carefully lowered Athos to the ground, waiting until the older man had steadied himself by leaning against one arm before he released his friend. Shifting his attention to the medic, he asked, “What do you need?”

 

“Help me get his doublet off, and then go find my supplies,” Aramis replied, casting a quick, searching glance over the battlefield, and concluding once again that he had no idea where his horse and saddlebags had ended up.

 

Porthos reached for the Gascon, rolling the young man’s body towards him while Aramis slipped the leather free from d’Artagnan’s shoulder and arm. “Good enough,” the marksman stated as the large man rolled their friend onto his back again. “Find my things, will you,” the medic ordered, his hands already busy releasing d’Artagnan’s shirt from his breeches so he could get a proper look at the wound underneath.

 

“Is it bad?” Porthos asked, hesitating a moment at the Gascon’s side.

 

“Bad enough,” Aramis replied tersely, worry making his words sharp.

 

The large man let out a soft sigh as he rose, moving over to Athos and crouching in front of the man. “How are you doing?”

 

The older man’s gaze was firmly pinned on the Gascon, and he was blinking owlishly as though having a hard time staying awake. The arm that was holding him up was trembling again, and Porthos’ concern flared when he received no reply. “Athos,” he said, gently cupping his friend’s cheek with one hand.

 

The action prompted the older man’s eyes to meet Porthos’ worried gaze, and he mumbled softly, “Alive?”

 

The large man smiled reassuringly as he said, “Yes, he’s alive.”

 

Athos began to nod, but as his head dipped forward, his eyes closed and his body became suddenly lax, leaving Porthos scrambling to catch him. “Aramis!” the large man called, his tone tinged with panic.

 

The medic’s head came up sharply to find Porthos in the midst of laying an unconscious Athos on the ground. With a muttered curse, he moved to his other patient’s side, asking as he did so, “What happened?”

 

Porthos looked at the marksman with a mix of fear and confusion as he answered, “I don’t know. He just collapsed.”

 

Aramis pressed his fingers firmly to the older man’s neck, waiting a moment until he felt a strong pulse. “He’s alright,” he declared, about to return to d’Artagnan’s side.

 

Porthos was having a hard time ripping his gaze away from the blood that Aramis’ touch had left on Athos’ throat, having to remind himself that it wasn’t the older man’s blood. “Are you sure?”

 

The medic’s expression softened as he focused for a moment on the large man. “I promise.” Porthos gave a nod in reply, trusting that his friend wouldn’t lie to him. “Porthos, I really need those supplies.” Shakily, the large man regained his feet, determined to do as Aramis had asked as quickly as possible so he could return and watch over his friends.

* * *

It was the stinging pain in his side that pulled him from unconsciousness, and he gasped even before he was fully aware. “d’Artagnan?” a voice asked from far away. He struggled to identify the sound and process the words, his mind moving too sluggishly to accomplish either.

 

“Are you with me?” The question followed on the heels of the first, but it was just as incomprehensible to his muddled brain.

 

“Is he awake?” A new voice entered the conversation, and the Gascon’s brow furrowed slightly at its appearance.

 

“I’d thought so, but now I’m not so sure,” the first person stated. “I suppose there’s one sure way to check. Sorry about this.” Before he could wonder about the apology, an intense pain in his side pulled another gasp from his lips, and his breaths sped up in response.

 

“d’Artagnan, open your eyes,” the second voice commanded, and this time d’Artagnan was able to recognize the voice as Porthos’ deep baritone.

 

A hand landed on his cheek, and his eyes fluttered open in response, unable to recapture his hold on the dark, pain-free space he’d previously enjoyed. “There you are,” Aramis praised, his hand moving from d’Artagnan’s cheek to the crook of his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

 

His eyes rolled in his head for a moment, threatening to return him to his unconscious state, but then the bite of the wound in his side registered, and he drew in a sharp breath at the pain. “Hurts,” he moaned.

 

“Yes, sorry about that,” Aramis said contritely. “While I’m glad you’re awake, I wouldn’t have minded if you stayed unconscious a few minutes longer until I’d finished. You took a blade to the side,” he explained. Biting his lip for a moment, he recalled his earlier fear when he’d discovered the wound. “As far as I can tell, you’re incredibly lucky as I don’t think it hit anything important inside.” His eyes clouded momentarily as his mind conjured the earlier memory of slipping his fingers into the wound, needing to confirm that none of the Gascon’s organs had been in the way of the steel that had pierced his lower flank.

 

d’Artagnan tried to shift his head to look down the length of his body, but was unsuccessful, his limbs feeling leaden. Letting his head drop back to the ground, he asked, “What happened?”

 

Porthos replied, wearing an expression of regret. “You must have been hurt in the skirmish.” He shook his head for a moment before continuing. “Sorry, d’Artagnan, we should have been more careful. I was sure we’d gotten them all.”

 

The Gascon frowned as his friend’s words reawakened his memories, his recollection matching the other man’s. He continued to rack his brain for an explanation of how they’d managed to miss one of their attackers, something that seemed very unlike them. Suddenly, the words he’d heard came rushing back. _“Mangy dogs like you have no place in the regiment, and I’m only too happy to be the one to correct Treville’s mistake.”_

 

d’Artagnan’s face blanched at the memory, causing Aramis to swiftly ask, “Are you alright? Is it the pain?”

 

“Mangy dog,” the Gascon mumbled, his mind still wrapped in the earlier memory.

 

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Porthos questioned, his expression of confusion matching the medic’s.

 

“That’s what he called me,” d’Artagnan explained, still trying to sort through his jumbled thoughts. “Said I didn’t deserve to be a Musketeer.”

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged concerned looks at their friend’s revelation, beginning to wonder if the enemy they sought was within their own ranks. “Did you recognize the voice?” the larger man queried.

 

A moment passed and then d’Artagnan shook his head. Seeking out the marksman’s gaze, Porthos said, “I had eyes on Viellard until the end, and Lebas was helping Jaccoud with his wound. Petit?”

 

“Checking on the fallen men with me,” Aramis replied with certainty.

 

“Then who?” Porthos asked, his mind churning as they eliminated all the possibilities. “Could it have been one of the raiders?”

 

The marksman shook his head, giving his friend a look that clearly said, ‘you know better than that.’ The words that had been spoken to d’Artagnan could only have come from one of their own; the only question was from whom.

 

Porthos gave a short nod of agreement as the silent conversation continued between himself and Aramis, reaching the same conclusion. “Alright, I’m going to check on the recruits. Jaccoud is resting, and Petit and Lebas have been collecting weapons. I’ll tell them to set up camp a ways off, which should give you enough time to finish here.” He paused a moment for Aramis’ response, and the medic nodded in agreement. “I’ll bring the horses back with me so we can move Athos and d’Artagnan.”

 

As he turned to leave, the marksman’s low but concerned words reached his ears. “Watch yourself, Porthos. We have no idea who we can trust.”

 

The large man offered a curt nod before striding away. Once again, it was the four of them against an unknown enemy, and when that person’s identity became clear, he would personally make sure they rued the day they had decided to come after one of the Inseparables.


	11. Enemy Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to catch this man and make sure he’s punished. Otherwise, I’ll never feel safe…not really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for the great speculation on the last chapter, and for continuing to share your reactions by leaving a comment. Enjoy!

 

The darkness surrounding them seemed to make the night that much quieter. For a moment, Athos considered clearing his throat or coughing softly just to break the silence, dismissing the thought almost immediately as he berated himself for even entertaining such foolishness.

 

It would be dawn in little more than an hour, and their camp had settled into some semblance of calm, although he knew it was a mostly artificial state. Once he and d’Artagnan had been moved from the battlefield, Porthos had announced the watch rotation, and stated explicitly that no one was to go anywhere alone. The order had caused a moment of confusion before, one by one, understanding had dawned on each of the men present.

 

_“Do you really think such extreme actions necessary?” Jaccoud questioned as he sat on the ground with his back supported by a tree._

_Lebas and Petit exchanged uncertain looks, as though debating whether to speak for or against their comrade’s position, but before either man could voice an opinion, Athos chimed in._

_“There have been multiple attempts on the life of a Musketeer, and we have no idea by whose hand,” the older man stated._

_“But, Viellard…” Lebas began, only to be interrupted by Aramis._

_“Viellard is dead, and was nowhere near d’Artagnan when he was stabbed,” the marksman stated, catching the way that Athos flinched at the mention of their friend’s latest injury._

_Still, the recruits seemed unconvinced to Porthos’ experienced eye. “Unless one of you wants to confess?” he asked, unable to hide the threatening note in his tone._

The discussion had ended there, no one willing to step forward and claim responsibility for d’Artagnan’s injuries, nor to incur Porthos’ wrath. It was a shame, Athos reflected now, and he wondered if it would have been better if the recruits had been less afraid. Sighing, he scrubbed a hand along his face, refusing to dwell on what-ifs that could not be changed.

 

His gaze shifted from the fire to his companion, the Gascon sitting just as silently as he was. With Aramis’ fussing, there’d been little time for them to speak, and they’d only managed to confirm that they were both fine, or at least as fine as two wounded men could be. The medic had efficiently tended to their injuries, placing stitches and a thick swath of bandages around d’Artagnan’s middle, while Athos’ arm received a good cleaning, followed by the application of new stitches to replace those which had been ripped. The older man freely admitted that the experience had been less than pleasant, and yet it had still been an easier process to bear than the words of admonishment he’d received from Aramis.

 

Thankfully, the verdict was that he’d simply pushed his healing body too far, and his body had pushed back. After losing more blood than he could afford to lose, and expending his small supply of energy defending his life, his brain had decided to shut down, which had resulted in his manly swoon to the ground. Aramis had assured him that he would be fine, but that he’d need to eat, drink, and rest as much as possible to support his body’s healing. It had been a tiresome verdict that Athos had been loathe to accept, but the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion he’d been battling was becoming harder to ignore.

 

As a result, he’d merely confirmed that d’Artagnan would also recover, before conferring briefly with Porthos about their plans for the night. By the time both conversations had ended, Aramis was waiting for him with a pain draught in one hand, and Athos could find no sound reason to resist. A few feet away, d’Artagnan had raised his own cup in salute, and they’d drunk the medic’s draughts like well-behaved patients, falling into a deep slumber soon after.

 

Their rest had lasted until the latest changing of the guard, when Porthos had attempted to wake Aramis to take the last two hours of the night. By then the effects of the draughts had worn off, and both Athos and d’Artagnan found themselves awake and restless. The result was that the former comte had refused to allow the marksman to take the last watch. Instead, he and the Gascon had propped themselves comfortably in seated positions, Athos with his back against a tree while d’Artagnan lounged semi-upright against his saddle in deference to his wound.

 

Though Porthos had tried to convince him to at least wake one of the recruits to join them, Athos had declined, citing Jaccoud’s need to heal from his injury, and the fact that the other two had already been on watch earlier. With a sigh of defeat, the larger man had acquiesced. That had left Athos and d’Artagnan alone, both men lost in their thoughts and leaving nothing but silence between them.

 

“Do you really believe that someone in our midst is to blame for everything that’s happened?” the Gascon asked, breaking the stillness and momentarily surprising the older man from his thoughts.

 

He frowned briefly before rebutting quietly, “You believe there is some other explanation?”

 

Athos watched as d’Artagnan shook his head morosely, obviously deeply disturbed by the idea that one of their own had tried to kill him. The stillness returned and lasted for several minutes before the Gascon broke it once more. “It was bad enough when Viellard…” he paused for a moment, searching for some way to convey what he was thinking. “When he did, what he did. But to think that there’s another who hates me so much…” He trailed off again, his voice heavily tinged with anguish.

 

Athos hated hearing the pain in his friend’s voice, and understood how badly recent events had shaken him. While d’Artagnan had been embraced and encouraged by both Treville and the Inseparables, not everyone welcomed the presence of the brash Gascon, and those individuals had made certain on more than one occasion that the young man was aware of their aversion.

 

d’Artagnan had never complained or even made mention of his difficulties, simply stating that they were all brothers in arms, and as long as the others in the regiment protected him while on duty, he had no quarrel with them. It was an incredibly mature outlook, and one that Athos himself had struggled to adopt, even though he recognized the wisdom in the Gascon’s words. Despite knowing that not everyone was happy about d’Artagnan’s place in the regiment, Athos couldn’t bring himself to believe that anyone would be so spiteful as to act against his friend.

 

Clearing his throat, he replied, “This isn’t about you, d’Artagnan.” Even in the dim light of the campfire, Athos could clearly see the way in which the Gascon’s eyebrows rose in challenge. “It’s not. This is about someone else’s inability to see past their own biases and insecurities, believing that harming you will somehow elevate their own status or feelings of self-worth.”

 

Athos could see that d’Artagnan was mulling over what he’d heard, trying to reconcile his own insecurities and doubts with the idea that someone could have harmed him to battle their inner demons. Finally, he said, “It’s possible, I suppose.” The remark brought a faint smile to Athos’ lips, the older man unsurprised that his protégé was capable of accepting such a paradox. “I just wish we’d had some idea before things got so bad.”

 

The comment wiped all traces of amusement from the older man’s expression as he remembered his earlier doubts about Viellard and the divisive nature of his presence. It was entirely plausible that Treville had had his own misgivings about the recruits, and had placed them with the Inseparables in order to suss out the troublemaker, or troublemakers, before any permanent damage was done. Obviously, it was far too late for the that, but Athos was determined to know the identity of their traitor and his motivations by the time they reached Paris.

 

Knowing that he owed it to d’Artagnan to share his misgivings, he replied, “I believe that Treville may have had some concerns about this group, and assigned them to us so we might address any concerns before anything bad happened.”

 

The Gascon’s face shifted from incredulity to resigned acceptance as he muttered softly under his breath, “Bastard.” Athos raised an eye at the expletive, but didn’t say anything, acknowledging that if anyone had a right to be upset with Treville’s actions, it was d’Artagnan, the young man having borne the brunt of the malicious acts.

 

A new resolve shone in the Gascon’s eyes as he asked, “Have you any ideas about the identity of our latest nemesis?”

 

Again, Athos felt compelled to be honest as he related the information Porthos had shared with him earlier. “Based on our recollections, no one was near you when you were stabbed. I was hoping you might have some useful information to share that will point us in the right direction.”

 

Sighing loudly, d’Artagnan raked a hand through his hair, an act that Athos recognized to mean that the Gascon was frustrated. Confirmation of his assessment followed a moment later when the younger man met his eyes, a desolate expression adorning his face. “I don’t think I can help. Everything happened so quickly; one moment I was heading to you and the next, I had someone grabbing the collar of my doublet and whispering threats into my ear. I didn’t even realize I’d been stabbed until I woke up to find Aramis tending my wound.”

 

Athos couldn’t contain his own sigh of frustration, having feared that the young man might not remember anything of use, only to be proven correct. d’Artagnan was their best and only lead, and without any useful information from him, they were back to watching and waiting until the enemy in their midst once more showed his hand. The realization sent a shiver of fear up his spine, as Athos wondered how many more attacks the Gascon could survive.

 

As though sensing his thoughts, d’Artagnan tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, Athos. I’ve dealt with the attacks thus far, and I’m certain whoever it is won’t try anything more now that we’re on our guard.” Unconvinced, the older man offered a small nod in reply as he prayed that their vigilance would be enough to get them safely home. 

* * *

The prevailing mood of their group was sombre and tinged with suspicion, Porthos’ announcement the previous day having set recruit against recruit, as each man wondered which of them had dared to turn on a fellow Musketeer. For their part, the Inseparables did nothing to improve the atmosphere, hoping that with so many eyes on each of them, the saboteur would have no opportunity to act.

 

They’d set out again for Paris shortly after the sun had risen, Aramis performing quick but efficient checks on all the men’s wounds before applying fresh bandages. It was a testament to each man’s fears that none of them had accepted anything for their pain before mounting.

 

Now, the recruits led the way, enabling the Inseparables to watch over them as they followed several meters behind. The distance allowed them to converse in hushed tones, as they continued to argue about the motive and opportunity of their unknown traitor.

 

“What about Lebas?” Porthos offered as he kept one eye on the recruits ahead. “Didn’t he have an aunt who knew about herbs?”

 

“A grandmother,” Aramis corrected, recalling the conversation that had occurred over dinner on the first night of their journey. “He seemed quite proud of the fact that he’d helped her collect many of the plants she used for healing.”

 

“So it’s possible that he would have known about lethal white?” d’Artagnan queried.

 

Aramis gave a slight shrug as he answered, “Possibly, although I’d thought the discovery of that plant was more recent than his grandmother’s time, but I could be wrong about that.”

 

“Could he have learned about it from anyone else?” Athos asked, not yet willing to dismiss Lebas as a suspect.

 

“Anything is possible,” the marksman replied noncommittally. “I only know of it from my connection to the church, and I have no idea how widely known that particular plant is.”

 

“Didn’t you say the drug is quick to act?” Porthos queried, receiving a nod from Aramis. “That could mean that it was Jaccoud who gave it to the lad.” He shifted his focus to the Gascon as he confirmed, “The two of you went to wash the dishes together, right?”

 

d’Artagnan dipped his chin in reply. “But, I didn’t eat or drink anything while we were at the river. How would he have dosed me with it?”

 

Porthos’ brow furrowed as he considered the errant fact, which countered the idea that Jaccould might be the culprit they sought. “Could it have been slipped into your food during dinner?”

 

The Gascon offered a slight shrug, regretting it at once as the motion pulled on his stitches. “I didn’t really eat much that night, although I did finish my cup of wine.” The large man’s face lit up at the possibility d’Artagnan had offered.

 

“They would have had to have access to your cup, since there were many of us who drank from that same bottle,” Athos stated. “Who was close to you?”

 

d’Artagnan’s thought for a moment before he replied, “Viellard was on one side of me and Petit on the other.” He flushed for a second as he admitted, “I remember hating being that close to Viellard, but I didn’t feel comfortable sitting with any of you.”

 

The admission prompted a short silence that was eventually broken by the marksman. “I suppose it could have been Viellard, but that suggests that we’ve had two men working against us this entire time instead of one.”

 

Pressing his fingers tiredly into his eyes, Athos allowed his hand to drop before asking, “What about during the skirmish? Are we quite certain that none of the recruits was near d’Artagnan?” As the question was posed, the Gascon unconsciously moved a hand to cover his wound, its throbbing seeming to intensify as they discussed it.

 

“I spotted Lebas and Jaccoud near the end, and they weren’t anywhere close to d’Artagnan’s position,” Porthos stated.

 

“Petit has been showing an interest in my role as medic, and was quick to offer his services in checking the fallen as soon as the danger was over,” Aramis added.

 

“And I watched Viellard fall, just after he saved my life,” Athos finished wearily.

 

Throwing his hands up momentarily in frustration caused another uncomfortable tug on d’Artagnan’s injured side, and he swallowed a grimace of pain before asking, “Then who? Everyone seems to have an alibi, yet I clearly wasn’t attacked by a ghost.”

 

“Maybe we should just ask them,” Porthos suggested, and evil glint coming over his eyes, “forcefully.”

 

Athos swallowed the sigh that threatened before he replied. “Perhaps that could have worked before things escalated, but now…” He trailed off for a moment before continuing. “I highly doubt that anyone will now willingly accept responsibility for what’s happened - not given the consequences they’d face.”

 

“We can’t just do nothing,” Porthos declared, his voice rising for a moment before he clamped down on his irritation with the situation.

 

“No one is suggesting that,” Aramis agreed. “The problem is that we don’t know what to do next.”

 

“That’s not true,” d’Artagnan interjected, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Whoever is doing this has made his target clear. We just need to give him an opportunity to act.”

 

Athos was the first to understand his protégé’s words, and he spoke up quickly and forcefully against the young man’s idea. “We will not use you to bait the traitor.”

 

As comprehension dawned on Porthos and Aramis’ faces, the Gascon was already readying his argument. “Do you have any other ideas?” He waited for only a heartbeat before continuing. “Of course, you don’t, and that’s the only reason I’m suggesting this.”

 

“We can just wait them out,” Porthos countered, despising the idea of placing their friend in danger just as much as Athos.

 

“For what?” d’Artagnan asked, growing irritable as the persistent pain of his injuries wore him down. “For us to get to Paris where whoever’s at fault can simply melt away into the city one night? That’s not good enough,” he stated vehemently. “I want to catch this man and make sure he’s punished. Otherwise, I’ll never feel safe…not really.” His last words were spoken softly, and his friends could see how much his admission had cost him.

 

Relenting marginally, Athos responded, “We don’t have to decide yet.” Shooting a glare at the Gascon as he attempted to argue again, he continued. “We’re still at least two days from Paris. If no one’s tipped their hand by tomorrow, we’ll consider your suggestion.”

 

Looking at the determined expressions on his friends’ faces, d’Artagnan knew it was as much as he’d get right now. He gave a curt nod of acceptance as he began to consider how he might place himself into a vulnerable position that would entice the traitor to act. 

* * *

Unknown to the group of Musketeers, a man desperately rode towards them. As his mount huffed beneath him, protesting the furious pace it had been forced to keep, the man murmured soft words to himself, “Faster, must move faster.” Had there been anyone around to hear him, they would have judged him mad, taking in his wild eyes and tense, focused expression, apparently seeing nothing other than the path that led him closer to his goal.

 

A bit of spittle flew back from his horse’s foaming mouth to land on his cheek. Wiping it away with one hand, he idly noted the animal’s growing distress as he prayed for the beast to hold on a little longer before it halted from exhaustion.


	12. A Matter of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The former comte had done his best to appear aloof and apathetic, and he’d only asked for one thing in return for protecting the King’s life – trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about leaving you with a bit of a cliffie in the last chapter. Finally, some answers ahead about what's been going on. Enjoy!

It was just after midday, and they were taking a break, Aramis refusing to watch the signs of pain on the injured men’s faces any longer. After ensuring that everyone ate, the medic had made draughts for all of them, and he’d refused to look away until he was confident that his patients had consumed them.

 

Their meal had been a quiet affair, with each of the recruits watching the others carefully, while the Inseparables did the same. It was only the latter group that maintained any sort of conversation for any length of time, and even they were more restrained than usual as a result of the threat that loomed over their heads. Even the normally exuberant Gascon was more subdued, a sign that Aramis viewed as a reflection of the amount of pain the younger man was suffering.

 

Though it had rankled Athos, the medic had insisted they stop for at least an hour, not only to eat, but to let the wounded men recover somewhat from the rigours of riding. While the older man had professed his good health, it was difficult to overlook the pallor of his skin which contradicted his claim. d’Artagnan had also been ready to argue against the marksman’s suggestion, but a well-timed glare from Porthos, along with a soft word of rebuttal, had the Gascon acquiescing. Aramis had been grateful for his friend’s intervention, about to lose his patience and let some harsh words fly in his worried state.

 

d’Artagnan was now drowsing, his lids heavy after drinking the medic’s powerful draught. He was somewhat surprised that he’d succumbed to its effects so quickly, ordinarily able to stave off sleep if necessary, but he chalked it up to lack of rest he’d gotten during the night. As he drifted, only partially aware, his mind went back to the previous day, and images of the battlefield appeared and morphed as he replayed the events of the skirmish.

 

As the scenes chaotically flowed through his mind’s eye, he could feel his heart picking up speed in reaction to the adrenaline that automatically flooded his veins. If he’d been more aware, he would have pulled himself from his dream state, but Aramis’ medicine, combined with his fatigue, were too powerful for him to overcome. Instead of waking, he remained locked in his memories, flinching as he moved away from an opponent’s sword, and then breathing heavily with remembered exertion. Sweat was beginning to bead at his brow, and still he continued to battle already-defeated enemies.

 

A soft cry left his parted lips, the sound attracting Athos’ attention and prompting him to move closer to his friend. “d’Artagnan,” he lowly called, but the young man was too wrapped up in memories to respond. The Gascon jerked back suddenly as he recalled the sensation of being grabbed and held in place, swallowing thickly against the feeling of steel at his throat. A whimper pushed its way from his chest, and Athos’ expression grew even more concerned at the nightmare that obviously gripped his protégé.

 

“d’Artagnan, wake up,” he tried again, fearful of startling the young man but needing him to wake.

 

The Gascon tossed his head as he imagined the harsh grip on his hair, while his face twisted in pain at the hateful words that were whispered in his ear. He focused on the voice, listening hard to the inflection and cadence, as he sought a clue to the speaker’s identity. But before he could recognize anything of value, the pressure in his side came, flaring quickly to pain and drawing a pitiful moan from his throat.

 

Athos could no longer stand his friend’s discomfort, looking around quickly for the medic. Spotting him repacking his things into his saddlebag, he called, “Aramis, there’s something wrong with d’Artagnan.” He waited a moment to see the marksman dropping his bag to come over, before returning his attention to the Gascon. Unable to watch the young man suffer, he placed a warm hand on his friend’s face, surprised at the instant effect it had.

 

One moment d’Artagnan was caught up in his dream, and the next he was wide awake, his breaths heaving from his chest as he stared with wide eyes at his mentor. Athos was at a loss, and was about to try some sort of platitude, until he suddenly found his arms full of his panicked friend.

 

As soon as d’Artagnan had recognized Athos, he’d jackknifed upwards to embrace the older man, pressing his face into his mentor’s shoulder as tears welled in his eyes. Before Athos had woken him, the Gascon’s mind had conjured an image of his friend’s death, and d’Artagnan desperately needed physical confirmation that his friend was still alive.

 

For his part, Athos merely wrapped his arms around the slender man, feeling the beating of a racing heart beneath his hands. Something had scared his friend – badly – and if this was helping, then he would sit there all day if needed, just holding the young man. Eventually, d’Artagnan’s breaths slowed, and with them, his tears. Athos met Aramis’ gaze over the Gascon’s shoulder as the latter calmed, giving unspoken permission to approach the young man.

 

“d’Artagnan,” the medic placed a hand on his friend’s back. “Is it alright if Athos lets go now? I’d like to check your wound and make sure none of your stitches have ripped.” At the marksman’s reminder of his injury, the Gascon winced, pain flooding his system from his earlier, frantic movements.

 

Slowly, d’Artagnan shifted away from the older man, Athos maintaining contact for a few moments longer until he was certain his protégé wasn’t about to fall over.

 

Offering a shy smile as he wiped the wetness from his face, the Gascon said, “I’m fine, Athos; you can let go now.”

 

Athos offered a return smile as he replied, “I do not think that word means what you think it means.” *****

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head for a moment as his grin widened, looking up seconds later to meet Aramis’ concerned gaze. “I really am fine. I just had a bad dream, that’s all.”

 

The medic forced his expression to smoothen, doing his best to wipe away all traces of his concern. “Then you’ll have no problem letting me check your side so I can confirm you’re not about to bleed to death.” At Athos’ wince, Aramis rued his poor attempt at a joke. “Sorry,” he said. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” Spotting Porthos approaching, he suggested, “Porthos, why don’t you take Athos over to the horses and see if we have any of that wine left from the other night.” Casting an experienced eye over the older man’s pale features, he said, “I believe he could use some.”

 

 

The large man understood immediately and reached down to offer Athos a hand up, pulling his friend easily to his feet. As if it was nothing, he companionably wrapped an arm around the older man’s shoulders as he led him away so Aramis could examine his patient in private.

 

By the time the other two men were walking away, the medic had already exposed the bandages that lay beneath the Gascon’s clothes, and he kept up a steady stream of conversation as he pulled his dagger to slice through the linen. “That must have been some dream,” he remarked, keeping his tone light. “Care to tell me about it.”

 

Aramis grinned when d’Artagnan snorted, obviously clear-headed enough to recognize what he was doing. “It was just a dream, Aramis,” the young man replied.

 

“Hmm,” the medic answered noncommittally as he allowed the bandages to fall away from the wound. The blade’s entry point was red and looked sore, but the stitches were still intact. Aramis imagined that despite his friend’s stoic protestations that he was fine, he must be experiencing considerable pain. Leaning back on his haunches he said, “I could convince Athos that we need to stay here for the night.” His tone was questioning and he prayed the Gascon would take him up on his offer, even though he knew that it would be refused. A moment later, he was proven correct.

 

“No, I’m fine to ride,” d’Artagnan replied, and Aramis swallowed a sigh of frustration at his friend’s predictable response. “Besides, none of us are safe until we’re back in Paris,” he pressed, hoping to convince the medic. Privately, he added to himself, _“And until the traitor in our midst is caught.”_

 

Aramis was giving him a piercing look, the one that was intended to discern the truth, and d’Artagnan met his friend’s gaze with a level one of his own, determined not to let the medic realize just how poorly he was feeling. “If you’re sure…” Once again, the marksman’s words were tinged with uncertainty as he gave the Gascon a last chance to change his mind.

 

“I’m sure,” d’Artagnan replied with as much confidence as he could muster, praying that the other man wouldn’t notice the fine sheet of sweat that was beginning to cover his face as the pain from sitting upright began to take its toll.

 

“Very well,” the medic acquiesced unhappily. “But at least move back and rest against that tree. I can see how much you’re hurting, and I want you to rest a while before we set out again. I’ll fetch some clean bandages and be back shortly to wrap that for you.”

 

An amused smile quirked d’Artagnan’s lips upwards as he complied, pausing for a moment as he said, “Thanks, Aramis.” The marksman gave a nod in reply before standing to get his supplies.

 

Before he’d taken more than a couple steps, he paused, noting a small speck on the horizon that seemed to steadily be growing larger. Aramis waited a few seconds longer to confirm the rider’s approach before throwing himself into motion, running towards Athos and Porthos. “There’s a rider approaching,” he shouted, getting the men’s attention as he ran.

* * *

Lebas threw a derisive glance in the Inseparables’ direction before taking a drink from his water skin. Jaccoud was still speaking, and he drew his attention back to his companion’s words. “He really is the weakest link.”

 

Lebas considered the statement, turning it around in his mind and assessing it for any fault, but unable to find one. Jaccoud was correct, just as their benefactor had been when he’d first broached the subject of their involvement.

 

“Of course, he is,” agreed Petit, glancing momentarily towards the two injured men and noting the apparent distress that the younger one was experiencing. Checking on the location of Aramis and Porthos next, he continued in low tones, “Did you honestly think he’d make an error in judgement?” The question was rhetorical, and neither of the other two recruits responded.

 

“Given his incompetence, I’m actually amazed we’ve had such a hard time of things,” Lebas observed, having thought that their mission would have been successfully completed by now.

 

“Viellard got impatient and careless,” Petit stated, his words tinged with bitterness.

 

“And now the whole mess is left in our hands to sort out,” Jaccoud declared, his expression reflecting the feelings shared by his comrades.

 

“How do you want to do it?” Petit asked, his eyes firmly pinned on their leader, noting the man’s tense body language as he responded to the Gascon’s continued anguish.

 

“We could try to dose him again?” Lebas suggested, but his idea was quickly met with the shaking of two heads.

 

“No, too dangerous to tip our hands in such an obvious fashion,” Jaccoud countered. “Although they suspect that someone else must have been working with Viellard, they don’t have any confirmation of their theory. Best to leave them guessing as long as possible.”

 

The thought clearly appealing to him, Lebas grinned in reply. “Another accident, then?” he offered, his mind already consumed with the various ways that they might stage another incident.

 

“No,” Petit shook his head with regret. “It was easy when they weren’t watching us, and that skirmish provided an ideal distraction. Now…” he trailed off as he considered their current circumstances. “They’re on guard and will be expecting someone to act.”

 

“What then?” Jaccoud asked, as he threw his hands up in frustration.

 

“We’ll figure something out,” Lebas declared placatingly.

 

“I’m starting to think our _benefactor_ set us up to fail,” Jaccoud replied, bitterness evident in his tone and posture.

 

“Are you admitting that they’re smarter than we are?” Petit challenged.

 

“No, of course not!” Jaccoud replied, lowering his voice quickly when he realized how loud his anger had made him. “Of course not,” he repeated in a softer tone. “But he seems to have the luck of the devil on his side, and I just don’t see any way that we can complete our mission before we reach Paris.”

 

Lebas shrugged as if unaffected by the thought of failure. “If that happens, then we’ll continue our mission at the garrison. It’s not ideal, but I’m sure our benefactor would agree to allow it, as long as we produce a successful outcome.”

 

Petit was nodding at Lebas’ words, and Jaccoud seemed somewhat mollified, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders.

 

“Oi, what’s happening now?” Lebas asked as he indicated towards Aramis with one hand. The medic had dropped the saddlebag he’d been packing and was now racing towards Athos and the Gascon, the latter man now visibly distraught, even from a distance.

 

“What do you think’s going on?” Jaccoud queried as he watched the scene unfold.

 

“Nightmares,” Petit stated with certainty.

 

“At least we’ve done something right,” Lebas stated with a smirk on his face. The other two matched his expression, silence falling over them as they observed d’Artagnan’s abrupt awakening and his subsequent scramble for the comfort of the older man’s arms.

 

“Pathetic,” Lebas hissed as he watched the way in which the Gascon clung to his mentor.

 

When the young man finally released his friend, Aramis moved closer and a brief conversation ensued, the words spoken too quietly for any of them to hear. Moments later, they observed Porthos’ approach, the larger man focusing momentarily on the medic before shifting his gaze to Athos, extending a hand to the older man and helping him up. The two Musketeers walked towards the horses while Aramis conducted his examination, the recruits watching unobtrusively lest someone believe them to be overly interested.

 

“It’s not the wound that’ll kill ya, but the infection,” Petit noted idly as he watched the bandages fall free from d’Artagnan’s middle.

 

“If only,” Jaccoud muttered and he wondered if praying could make it so.

 

“Hold on,” Lebas ordered, watching the medic stiffen after moving away, his attention on a distant point on the horizon. Several long seconds passed before the marksman was in motion once more, his voice holding a note of panic as he shouted, “There’s a rider approaching!”

* * *

Treville pressed his fingers into his tired eyes, only releasing the pressure when he began to see spots dancing in his vision. The action was so reminiscent of his lieutenant that he grimaced in chagrin. Athos was a complicated man. He cared deeply for the few who’d charged past his defenses to take up root in his heart, and the Captain knew that the former comte would do anything for those he counted among his friends. Conversely, he cared little for himself, and Treville often wondered if his friend would fall first to drink or the blade, both options possessing equal merit.

 

When the two had first met, the career soldier had almost dismissed the former noble as a lost cause, so deep into his cups that he could barely stand. But, then he’d witnessed an incredible act, which had convinced him that the man he’d almost dismissed outright was worth salvaging. Though drunk, Athos had still had enough wits about him to notice when a young man was being harassed by two Red Guards. Treville had been about to intervene when the noble had approached, announcing his presence in low, slurred tones and demanding the guardsmen be on their way.

 

Unsurprisingly, the soldiers had given Athos’ words little credence, taking in his disheveled appearance and the overwhelming, pungent scent of wine mixed with sweat. That had been when they’d made their next mistake, the first being the fact that they’d underestimated the drunk in front of them. As soon as they turned their backs, Athos was slipping his sword free from his scabbard, and Treville remembered being surprised at the excellent condition of the blade given its owner’s condition.

 

The former comte had immediately engaged the guards, and while Athos’ movements had lacked the grace of sobriety, he still soundly thrashed his opponents in less time than Treville would have thought possible. When the boy he’d rescued had turned to thank his rescuer, Athos had waved him off, already staggering back to the corner he’d claimed as his own, slumping clumsily to the ground to pick up his discarded bottle of wine. The Captain was astounded and perplexed, and was more certain than ever that the man he’d just witnessed saving a young man was far more complex than first impressions suggested.

 

He’d marched directly over to the drunk, inhaling carefully through his mouth to avoid the strong odor, as he’d introduced himself and told the man to come find him at the garrison once he was sober. Athos had looked at him through bleary eyes, and Treville hadn’t been certain that the man would even remember his words when he sobered, but prayed that he would still somehow find his way to the garrison. When Athos had hesitantly walked through the gates the following morning, still somewhat unkempt, but at least clear-eyed, the Captain had known that this man was a truly rare find, and one who would be a great asset to the regiment.

 

That day, he’d offered Athos a new life, stalwartly not asking any questions about Athos’ past, despite the strong desire to do so. The former comte had done his best to appear aloof and apathetic, and he’d only asked for one thing in return for protecting the King’s life – trust. Treville had sworn he would always be honest with the other man, and he was touched when Athos took his word at face value. Since that day, he’d worked hard to keep his friend’s trust, but he feared that his most recent decision would shatter whatever bond had grown between them over the years.

 

Sighing, he looked once more at the parchment in his hand. It offered confirmation that d’Artagnan’s life was in danger, although the person or persons involved were unknown. He’d gotten wind of a potential threat against the young man two weeks earlier, but had had no credible information that could verify the risk. Deciding that the Gascon was safest while surrounded by his friends, he’d made the decision to send him with the Inseparables on a training mission, but he’d kept his reasons to himself.

 

At the time, he’d rationalized that there was no need to share the rumours that he’d heard with Athos, feeling certain that his lieutenant would dismiss the potential threat just as he had. But as the days passed, and hearsay turned to fact, Treville had begun to feel he’d made a grievous mistake. Now, he finally had confirmation of the threat in hand, and needed to decide how to act upon the intelligence. While he had the option of sending Musketeers from the regiment to advise Athos of what he’d found out, Treville was reluctant to do so, fearing he might lead those wanting to do d’Artagnan harm directly to their prey. He let the parchment drop from his hand, reaching instead for the glass of brandy that he’d filled to the brim. Bringing it to his lips, he savored a swallow, relishing the way the liquid burned as it went down. Setting aside the glass, he again picked up the parchment, crumpling it in his fist as he acknowledged his earlier conclusion – Athos would not thank him for what he’d done.

* * *

**A/N: *** I can't claim any credit for this line, which comes from one of my favorite movies ever, The Princess Bride.


	13. Friend or Foe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Riout? What the devil are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy what comes next!

Athos forced himself to slowly sip from the cup that Porthos had poured for him, the wine flowing too easily over his lips and tongue. If not for his friend’s presence, he would have gulped the contents and been well into his second glass by now. Given the expression on the larger man’s face, he was well aware of Athos’ thoughts.

 

Tipping the cup one last time, Athos drained its contents, willfully handing the empty vessel to his friend and shaking his head ‘no’ to a refill. They were still in danger, and clearly d’Artagnan needed him, and he would not let the Gascon down by getting drunk.

 

“Better?” Porthos asked, repacking the used cup.

 

“Hmm,” Athos replied, his gaze fixed on their other two friends.

 

“He’ll be alright,” the larger man offered, guessing correctly at the source of his friend’s preoccupation.

 

“He’s been through so much,” Athos replied softly, sharing some of his uncertainties about his protégé’s future.

 

“True,” Porthos replied. “And that should be proof enough that he’s made of strong stuff. It’ll take more than a few _accidents_ and bad dreams to break him.”

 

The older man stood silently for several seconds before turning to look at his friend, and Porthos was shocked at the desolation that shone from his eyes. “I pray that you’re right.”

 

Momentarily shaken by the naked fear in Athos’ eyes, the large man placed a comforting hand on his friend’s upper arm. “Hey, you know I’m always right.” His lips quirked slightly in an effort to lighten the mood, and he was rewarded a moment later as some of the despair seemed to slip from Athos’ features.

 

Tiredly, Athos nodded, his tone amused as he said, “Except when it comes to women and gambling.”

 

“Oi, that’s not fair, now,” the large man rebutted good-naturedly, pleased to see some of the weight lifted from his friend’s shoulders. He was about to suggest they go back and check on d’Artagnan when Aramis’ shout reached their ears.

 

It took a moment for Porthos to process the marksman’s words, but as soon as he did, he reached back for the man’s harquebus, pushing Athos forward as he did so. “Go, check on the boy. I’ll be right behind you.”

 

The older man was in motion at once, driven by his need to check on d’Artagnan. He watched as Aramis ran towards them and gave the marksman a quick nod of acknowledgement as they passed each other. Ahead, the Gascon had pushed himself to his feet, and he locked gazes with Athos for a moment before they each altered course, opting to meet in the middle at a point where they would intercept the unknown rider.

 

Less than a minute later, the two men stood shoulder to shoulder, joined shortly by Aramis and Porthos who flanked them. “I’ve got the recruits spreading out on either side,” the large man stated without taking his eyes off their target. Athos gave a curt nod, grateful for the larger man’s forethought.

 

As the rider drew nearer, he slowed to a walk, and Aramis observed the man down the barrel of his weapon. Instinctively, he knew that his friends had drawn their pistols, but all of them were waiting on word from him before they fired. A few more steps and the marksman squinted to confirm his initial assessment, slowly letting his weapon rest on one shoulder as he gave tacit permission for the man to approach.

 

Athos had not yet recognized the rider, but trusted Aramis’ judgement as he, too, lowered his pistol. As the man closed the distance between them, and removed the hat from his head, recognition dawned. “Riout? What the devil are you doing here?” 

* * *

The recruits had been dispatched to secure the area, walking a perimeter while keeping watch for any other unexpected company. The Inseparables had brought their guest back to the centre of their makeshift camp so they could have a private conversation.

 

“Alright, Riout, let’s hear it,” Porthos prompted gruffly, unhappy with the situation, which seemed to be changing more rapidly than they were able to adjust. It wasn’t that he was displeased to see the other man, but he was confused by the Musketeer’s presence.

 

The newcomer gave a smile to show he wasn’t offended by Porthos’ words. “Captain Treville sent me,” he replied.

 

Athos’ brow furrowed a moment as he said, “The last I’d heard, you’d been assigned to the North. When did you return?”

 

“Just a few days ago,” Riout responded. “Actually, that’s the reason that I was picked for this mission. Treville couldn’t spare anyone else because the King decided on the spur of the moment to go hunting. Our forces are spread thin escorting him, while also guarding the Queen in Paris.”

 

Aramis nodded sagely at the explanation. “So, what’s this mission you’ve been sent on?”

 

“I’m here with a warning,” Riout replied, his tone growing more sombre as he uttered the words. “Treville got wind of some sort of threat against you. He wanted me to ride out and see if I could intercept you before anything happened.”

 

Porthos snorted at the man’s reason. “Bit too late for that.”

 

Riout looked concerned as he asked, “Why, has something happened?”

 

“d’Artagnan has experienced some unfortunate accidents as of late,” Athos replied, indicating the young man with a tilt of his chin.

 

“Ah, you’re the one I’ve heard all those stories about,” Riout responded, his expression lightening with a grin. The Gascon merely offered a nod in reply, somewhat taken aback by the man’s positive response. Turning his attention back to Athos, their guest continued, “Sounds like Treville was right to be concerned. How do you want to handle things?”

 

“We were on our way back to Paris and were about to depart when you arrived,” Athos replied. “Given that we’re uncertain about the identity of the perpetrator of these accidents, it will be good to have an extra set of eyes we can trust.”

 

Riout’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “You mean to say that you suspect one of your group?”

 

Aramis nodded sadly as he confirmed, “There’s no other possibility, I’m afraid. We thought we’d caught the culprit the other day, until another incident occurred.”

 

Riout’s gaze moved automatically to one of the recruits as he slowly nodded. “No wonder you were on your way back. I’ll do whatever I can to ensure our journey is an uneventful one.”

 

Athos gave a dip of his chin as he said, “That would be appreciated.”

 

By unspoken agreement, the men rose to their feet. “I’ll go get the others and tell them to get ready to leave,” Porthos stated.

 

Clapping the large man’s shoulder, Riout interjected, “Why don’t you let me do that. That’ll give you time to pack your things so we can be on our way faster.” Porthos gave the man a smile of thanks before watching the newcomer stride off.

 

“Damn lucky he found us,” Porthos commented, looking after their new arrival.

 

“Shame he couldn’t have gotten here earlier,” Aramis mused. “Could have saved us all sorts of trouble.”

 

“Possibly,” Athos remarked thoughtfully. “And it’s just as possible that nothing would have changed.” With nods of agreement, the men moved to collect and stow the few things they’d unpacked while they’d rested. 

* * *

As soon as Riout was out of sight of the Inseparables, the recruits converged on him, carefully staying behind the cover of some nearby trees. “What are you doing here?” Lebas hissed angrily.

 

“Calm yourselves,” the Musketeer replied, raising his hands in supplication. “I’m only here to help.”

 

“We don’t need any help,” Jaccoud replied, feeling off-balance at the man’s unexpected arrival.

 

Riout raised a questioning eyebrow as he said, “Given that d’Artagnan is still alive, I’d say I arrived just in time.”

 

Noting the way in which his friends’ faces flushed with anger, Petit interjected. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate your assistance, but it is a somewhat unanticipated development.”

 

“Sudden, one could even say,” Jaccoud added, his expression still thunderous.

 

“Fine, yes, I know it’s a surprise to see me out here, but Treville’s gotten proof of the threat against d’Artagnan,” Riout confessed. “Would you rather that I show up to warn you, or would you prefer to encounter more men from the regiment?”

 

Grudgingly, the recruits accepted that Riout was the preferred choice, and he could see some of the animosity flowing from their features. Seeing that he now had the advantage, he pressed on. “So, tell me, what’s your plan?”

 

The recruits guiltily exchanged glances, making it clear to Riout that no plan existed. Sighing, he held his fingers to the bridge of his nose for a moment. Dropping his hand, he said, “Fine, the first thing we need to do is keep them here.”

 

“Why would we want to do that?” Lebas demanded, still bristling at the other man’s interference.

 

“Because, _boy_ ,” he drew out the derisive term for a moment before continuing. “Staying here will give us more time to accomplish your mission. If we continue towards Paris, there’s a strong chance we’ll encounter another group of Musketeers. I would think you’d want to avoid that?” His tone was heavily laced with scorn, and Lebas dropped his gaze in embarrassment.

 

“And how are we supposed to keep them from leaving?” Petit asked, still trying to act as peacekeeper between them.

 

Examining the recruits carefully, Riout finally shook his head in disgust. “I’ll think of something. Just make sure you play along with whatever I come up with,” he ordered. “Now, let’s get back before someone becomes suspicious.”

 

The men turned away and began moving in the direction of the Inseparables, Jaccoud still favoring his wounded leg. “What happened there?” Riout asked as he came abreast of the other man, allowing the other two to move ahead.

 

“A lucky shot from a raider,” Jaccoud replied, his face a mix of discomfort and disgust.

 

Riout placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder, pausing their forward motion as he said, “Tell Aramis that your injury is worsening and that it’s too painful for you to ride.”

 

Jaccoud thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, he’ll never believe that. It wasn’t too bad to begin with, and there’s no way it’s bad enough to keep me from the back of a horse.”

 

Riout nodded pensively, before pointing to the recruit’s injured leg. “Where were you hit?” Jaccoud’s hand ghosted over the spot where his skin was stitched together. Rubbing his chin in thought, Riout suggested, “Tell them you fell and hurt it.”

 

Jaccoud scoffed out loud as he replied. “Do you honestly think Aramis would believe that?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned away from the other man, once more following his comrades.

 

Riout’s eyes turned dark as he replied under his breath, “No, he wouldn’t.” A moment later, he’d pulled Jaccoud to the ground, using the weight of his body to keep the recruit down. “Shh,” he said before placing one hand over Jaccoud’s mouth. His other hand felt along the ground, seeking out and grasping a stout twig. Shifting his position marginally, he brought his hand to the recruit’s wound, and moments later, the length of wood in his hand was cruelly digging in, pulling a muffled scream from the injured man’s throat. Riout smiled at him as he increased the pressure, pressing down for several seconds longer until the man beneath him fell limp.

 

Standing up, he looked down at the prostate man with a satisfied expression on his face. “Now Aramis will believe you.” Without looking back, he walked away, following after the other recruits.

* * *

Lebas and Petit had reached the horses first, and they’d begun to ready their things in preparation to depart. When Riout arrived alone, Petit threw him a questioning glance, which the new arrival responded to with a slight shrug of his shoulders. Unable to ask about Jaccoud without alerting the others, the recruits continued their preparations.

 

“Where’s Jaccoud?” Porthos asked as he approached the others, carrying his bag over one shoulder.

 

Riout repeated his earlier action, offering a shrug in reply. “He said he needed a moment to relieve himself.” He made a show of looking around for the missing man before he continued. “I thought he’d be back by now.”

 

Porthos offered a soft grunt in reply as he set about attaching his bag to the back of the saddle. When he’d finished, he moved to Athos’ horse next, checking that everything was in good working order so that his friend wouldn’t have to unnecessarily use his sore arm. As he was finishing, Athos approached with d’Artagnan and Aramis, the Gascon walking carefully as he tried to minimize the discomfort of each footfall.

 

“Where’s Jaccoud?” their lieutenant asked, his gaze shifting to the two recruits.

 

Lebas struggled to keep the expression of resentment off his face, intentionally not looking in Riout’s direction as he replied. “He had to attend to some personal business.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed as he scanned the nearby tree line. “Surely he’s had time enough to attend to his needs,” he stated, his tone questioning.

 

“Should we go look for him?” Petit asked, fear beginning to uncomfortably roil in his belly as he noted the dispassionate expression on Riout’s face.

 

The Inseparables exchanged quick looks before Porthos replied, “Best go find him if we want to make any more progress today.”

 

The recruits took the large man’s response as permission to go look for their errant comrade, while Aramis moved closer to Riout. “Did Jaccoud look alright when you spoke with him?”

 

Shifting his features into a mild look of confusion, the newcomer replied, “Yes, why? Is there something wrong?”

 

Aramis slowly shook his head as his gaze shifted towards the trees. “I don’t believe so, but he has a relatively fresh wound in his thigh.”

 

“You believe there’s cause for concern?” Athos asked, the older man having drifted closer to join their conversation.

 

Glancing momentarily in the Gascon’s direction, the marksman lowered his voice as he answered. “I didn’t think so, but d’Artagnan’s wound is showing some early signs of infection. It’s possible Jaccoud’s is doing the same.”

 

Before they could speculate any further, Lebas and Petit appeared, half-carrying Jaccoud between them. “Merde!” Aramis cursed as he spotted the men, taking off at once in their direction with Porthos on his heels.

 

Athos and d’Artagnan followed at a more sedate pace in deference to their injuries, the former pausing momentarily as he said, “I should bring Aramis his bag.”

 

“Go,” Riout responded, already turning towards the marksman’s horse. “I’ll bring it along.” Receiving a quick nod of thanks from the older man, he turned back to Aramis’ horse, quickly locating the bag containing the medical supplies. Gripping the bag tightly to his chest, he couldn’t help the brief grin that appeared as he realized the opportunity that had been handed to him. With a spring in his step, he hurried his pace, closing the distance between himself and the others.


	14. Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s not that infection was unexpected with an injury of this sort, but I spent extra time making sure the wound was clean before I closed it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and shared their thoughts on the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!

Jaccoud’s wound had been bad enough for Aramis to immediately argue against the idea of traveling any further that day. Athos’ jaw had clenched so tightly at the news that his friends were certain he’d have cracked teeth afterwards. Finally, after several moments that had the others wondering if the older man would explode, Athos drew a deep, calming breath and uttered a single word, “Alright.”

 

The medic had merely given a tight nod in reply and turned back to finish tending his patient. The others had loosely gathered around the injured man, the looks of horror clear on everyone’s faces at the sight of the piece of wood that grotesquely protruded from Jaccoud’s thigh. At Aramis’ direction, his fellow recruits had brought him back to where they’d earlier stopped to eat and laid him down flat on the ground. The medic had done a quick, preliminary check before making his demand that they stay put overnight, before taking his medical supplies from Riout and kneeling next to the injured man.

 

To his credit, Petit had automatically taken his place across from Aramis, his eyes wide as he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

 

The medic gave him a quick smile of gratitude before handing his bag over. “Get the brandy, clean bandages, and needle and thread ready while I get this out,” he said, motioning to the piece of wood. He reached for his dagger, pulling it from the sheath as his back as he noted their audience. Raising his voice, he said, “I’m sure Jaccoud doesn’t need all of you watching while I take care of this.”

 

Taking his cue from the marksman, Athos ordered, “And I’m sure we’re all familiar with the chores that need to be completed to set up camp.” The men dispersed at once, with only the older man remaining to observe.

 

Aramis carefully cut through the leather of Jaccoud’s breeches, gently tugging until he could examine the skin and muscle surrounding the offending twig. “This looks like it’s in fairly deep,” he commented, pausing for a moment to let the wounded man compose himself. “How did this happen?”

 

Jaccoud drew a shaky breath, every light touch even remotely in the vicinity of his injury sending sharp flashes of pain through his system. “I….I fell,” he breathed out. “I tripped, and fell.” He shuddered as the pain swelled once more, while fresh perspiration dotted his brow. Closing his eyes against the overwhelming sensations stemming from his leg, his missed the incredulous look that Petit threw his way, only to be wiped away a second later as the recruit caught himself.

 

Over Jaccoud’s prostrate form, Athos and Aramis were having their own non-verbal conversation as the older man asked whether the recruit’s explanation was plausible. The marksman shrugged in response, indicating that it was; the weight of Jaccoud’s body against a short length of broken tree branch, sitting at the right angle, could have penetrated leather and skin, unlikely as it was. Returning his attention to his patient, Aramis placed a hand on the injured man’s chest in comfort as he asked, “Are you ready for me to continue?” Receiving a jerky nod, the medic said, “Petit, I’m going to try and remove this. Once it’s out, I need you to have bandages ready to press against the wound.”

 

He waited a moment for his helper to ready himself, and then grasped the length of wood in one hand, pressing his other against Jaccoud’s knee to keep him from moving his leg. “Brace yourself,” he said to Jaccoud before yanking at the twig. It came out with a sickening slurp as the skin and muscle that had held it firm were forced to release their hold. The extraction was followed a heartbeat later by an agonized yelp of pain from the injured recruit.

 

Petit immediately shifted forward, pressing a wad of linen against the heavily bleeding wound, and Aramis laid his free hand on top of the recruit’s for a moment as he instructed, “Harder. You’ll need to continue pressing down on that until I tell you to stop.” Petit gave a tight nod in reply, his lips pressed into a thin line, while Jaccoud panted harshly at the pain.

 

Aramis stood up and moved closer to Athos as he examined the stick he’d removed from Jaccoud’s leg, holding it up a second later for his friend to see. “It went in quite far,” he remarked quietly, as he pointed to the nearly two inches of darkly-stained wood. Turning his back on the two recruits, he lowered his voice even further as he said, “Quite remarkable that it should happen to impale him in the same spot as his previous wound.”

 

Athos gave an imperceptible nod in reply before he asked, “Will he be fit to ride tomorrow?”

 

Aramis threw a quick glance over his shoulder, noting his patient’s pale and clammy features, and the amount of red that had stained both the linen and Jaccoud’s breeches. Turning back to the older man, he replied, “It depends. If there’s no infection then he’ll likely be able to manage sitting a horse. Not at any sort of speed, mind, and not for long periods of time, but it’s possible. If he develops a fever…” he trailed off, knowing he didn’t need to say anything more.

 

“Do your best with that wound,” Athos directed. “I’m going to speak with Porthos and d’Artagnan.”

 

Aramis’ eyebrow quirked upwards inquiringly as he said, “Riout?”

 

“I haven’t decided yet,” Athos replied before moving away.

 

With a sigh, the medic turned back to his patient. “Let’s have a look at that now, shall we?” 

* * *

Riout’s arrival had been unexpected, to say the least. While Athos and the others had outwardly welcomed the man into their midst, too many questions surrounding his arrival, fostered by a healthy amount of paranoia, left the older man unable to wholly trust the man who had been away from Paris for more than a year. Further complicating the situation was the fact that he knew little about Riout’s reassignment, and was uncertain whether the man had left Paris on good terms or bad.

 

That Jaccoud’s injury so closely aligned with the Musketeer’s arrival didn’t sit well with Athos either. Aramis’ statement about the location of the wound only deepened his suspicions about the man, and he found himself hurrying to speak with Porthos and d’Artagnan about his misgivings. He was chagrined to find Riout heading towards them even as he closed the distance between himself and his friends. They arrived at nearly the same moment, and Athos found himself the centre of everyone’s attention as they waited for him to speak.

 

Forcing a sense of calm that he didn’t feel, he swallowed the words he’d wanted to say, and turned to Riout instead. “What is our status?”

 

“Lebas and Petit are watering the horses, and everyone’s saddlebags have been collected. When they return, we’ll need to start gathering firewood,” Riout responded succinctly.

 

“No need to wait on the recruits to return; we can start collecting wood now,” Athos replied, his order clear. The new arrival hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for the others to move, and when they did not, he offered a slight nod of acknowledgement before walking away.

 

The three watched Riout’s departure, waiting until he was far enough away that they could speak in relative privacy. “What was that about?” Porthos asked without preamble.

 

“Jaccoud’s latest injury is in the same place as his earlier bullet wound,” Athos stated.

 

“What?” d’Artagnan asked, confused at how something like that was even possible.

 

Taking pity on the Gascon, Porthos answered, “Someone most likely _helped_ Jaccoud acquire his latest injury.”

 

d’Artagnan blinked in astonishment for a moment before he managed to ask, “Who?” Porthos and Athos’ gaze shifted in Riout’s direction, and the Gascon’s eyes widened in understanding as he remarked, “But I thought you knew him? Are you saying he can’t be trusted?”

 

The two older men exchanged glances before Athos replied, “It’s hard to know. Riout was reassigned over a year ago, and his departure was _abrupt_.”

 

Porthos snorted as he added, “To say the least. He was there one day, and gone the next.”

 

Athos gave slight nod as he continued, “The Captain stated merely that he’d been sent to fortify our forces in the north, but there was no explanation ever offered supporting the need to send anyone additional.”

 

“Plus, what difference would one man make?” Porthos asked rhetorically. “If they’d really needed more men, Treville would have sent a group of us.”

 

d’Artagnan was nodding slowly as he processed what his friends were telling him. “And he was the one to gather the recruits when we said we wanted to leave.”

 

Sighing wearily, Athos concluded, “And I fear that the longer we remain, the more we prolong the danger you are in.”

 

“ _We_ are in,” d’Artagnan automatically corrected, certain that if anyone tried to hurt him, his friends would immediately step into harm’s way in a bid to protect him. “What do we do?”

 

“Our best bet would’ve been to ride for Paris,” Porthos stated with regret, recognizing that the option had been taken away from them, at least until Jaccoud was fit enough to ride.

 

“What if some continue the journey and bring back help, with the rest stay behind until Jaccoud can travel?” d’Artagnan suggested.

 

Both Athos and Porthos vehemently shook their heads. “No,” the older man replied. “How would you decide who stays and who goes? If we leave the recruits, there’s no guarantee they’ll be here when we return.”

 

“Or be alive by the time we get back,” Porthos added, reminding them that they still didn’t know who they could trust.

 

“Then Aramis and I can stay here, while you and Porthos get help,” d’Artagnan stated, only to be opposed again.

 

“And possibly leave you open to attack, and with two fewer sets of eyes to watch your back?” Porthos questioned, his tone making it obvious that they wouldn’t consider that a viable option either.

 

“We have to do something,” the Gascon declared, his voice rising as his frustration grew.

 

“We will,” Athos replied. “For now, we wait.” d’Artagnan looked ready to protest, but Athos didn’t give the younger man a chance to interrupt. “We wait until tomorrow and see if Jaccoud is able to ride. If he is, we’ll continue on as planned.”

 

“What if he’s not?” Porthos asked, already certain he knew the answer, but needing to hear it regardless.

 

“Then we reevaluate tomorrow,” Athos answered, confirming the larger man’s suspicion that his friend didn’t yet have a plan for that contingency and was hoping it wouldn’t come to fruition. 

* * *

The night was an exceptionally warm one, and the heat from the campfire made it almost uncomfortably hot. With that thought at the forefront of his mind, d’Artagnan dragged the back of his hand across his brow, wiping away the sweat that glistened in the firelight. He considered removing his doublet, but none of his friends had removed their outer clothing, and if their body language was any indication, no one else was feeling the effects of the heat. Rather than fend off more well-meaning comments about his health, he decided to simply keep the garment on and hope that he’d cool off soon.

 

They’d eaten a sparse meal of travel rations, no one feeling overly hungry, and the dried meat and hard cheese doing little to temp flagging appetites. Riout had moved easily between both groups, spending some time in conversation with the Inseparables and the recruits, but always staying within sight and hearing range of everyone there. As d’Artagnan’s gaze now landed on the man who was sharpening his main gauche, he couldn’t find anything odd in his behaviour that might indicate more nefarious intentions. Abruptly, Riout looked up from his blade, catching the Gascon’s eye and offering a wide smile. d’Artagnan awkwardly returned the gesture, grateful when the man lowered his gaze once more to complete his work.

 

He could feel another trickle of sweat travelling down his spine, the sensation making him shiver, and he wondered idly for a moment if he was really too warm or too cold instead, his body now beginning to send him mixed signals. The minute trembling of his upper body jarred his broken rib and his stab wound, and he hunched further into himself, wrapping his arms around his middle in an attempt to ease his discomfort.

 

Trying to distract himself from his slowly increasing misery, he shifted his gaze to Jaccoud, the recruit laying almost motionless on the other side of the fire. The man had been gray and shaking with pain by the time Aramis had finished tending to his injury, and he’d fairly inhaled the pain draught he’d been given. Since then, he’d lain in the same place, his eyes often drifting closed until he’d wake several seconds or minutes later, each time jerking momentarily as awareness returned. To d’Artagnan, it seemed that the recruit was feeling panicky, especially in the few moments that it took for him to register his location after each bout of sleep.

 

As the Gascon watched, Jaccoud’s eyelids once again grew heavy, the time between blinks slowly lengthening while the recruit fought valiantly to remain awake. Aramis had encouraged the injured man to rest while he was able, but the recruit had merely shaken his head, his eyes haunted with some unspoken fear. d’Artagnan wondered why the man would fight so hard to maintain his hold on consciousness, when it would provide a welcome respite from the pain he had to be experiencing.

 

The thought brought his attention back to his own aches, his left flank almost consumed by the persistent throbbing of his injuries. He’d caught the look on Aramis’ face earlier when the medic had rebandaged his wound, and had seen the momentary flash of worry that crossed the medic’s face before it disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. Resting the palm of one hand over the stitches, he imagined he could feel the puckered slice pulsing as it sent hot flashes of pain through his chest and abdomen with each beat of his heart. He knew he should probably ask Aramis to check it again, but a part of him protested the idea, afraid of what his friend might find.

 

The low murmur of voices caught his attention, and he looked over at Jaccoud again. Aramis was in the midst of cleaning the recruit’s wound, while Petit crouched at his friend’s other side, looking on with concern etched on his face. Squinting, d’Artagnan noted the recruit’s poor condition; apparently the man had deteriorated quickly since earlier that afternoon. As he watched, Petit lifted his friend’s head and helped him drink, Jaccoud’s face disappearing for a moment behind the cup at his lips. Aramis gave his helper a nod of encouragement as he patted his patient’s arm and then withdrew.

 

Returning to his friends, Aramis caught Athos’ eye as he quietly said, “He’s growing worse.”

 

“Infection?” the older man questioned, receiving a tight nod in reply.

 

“I don’t know why it came on so quickly,” the medic replied, dragging his hand through his tangled curls as he racked his brains for a reason to explain his patient’s swift decline. “It’s not that infection was unexpected with an injury of this sort, but I spent extra time making sure the wound was clean before I closed it.”

 

Recognizing the signs of his friend’s guilt, Porthos tried to reassure his friend. “Not your fault, Aramis. You know as well as I that sometimes there’s nothing you can do, no matter how clean the wound.”

 

“Porthos is correct,” Athos agreed, hoping their combined words would convince the marksman that he wasn’t at fault.

 

Aramis stood still for several moments, his hands on his hips, worrying his lower lip as he considered his next step. Reaching a decision, he said, “Off with your doublet, Athos. I want to have another look at your arm, and then,” he shifted his gaze momentarily to the Gascon, “I’ll see to yours.” The older man was comfortable that his wound was healing well, but recognized that the medic needed to do this, needed to satisfy himself that neither of his friends were at risk due to his perceived incompetence.

 

“Very well,” Athos replied agreeably, immediately shrugging his good arm out of his doublet before letting the garment fall free of his other arm. He sat quietly as Aramis prodded at the stitches, cleaning them with a damp cloth before covering them again.

 

“How is the pain?” the medic asked when he’d finished helping Athos back into his doublet.

 

“It’s fine,” the older man replied, holding his friend’s gaze as he answered so that Aramis could see the truth of his words.

 

With a satisfied nod, the medic turned to the Gascon, the young man sitting unmoving in his spot. “Alright, d’Artagnan, it’s your turn.” When the young man didn’t reply, Aramis tried again, a questioning tone coloring his words. “d’Artagnan, did you hear me? I need you to remove your doublet.”

 

The marksman’s statement finally registered, piercing the low-level buzz that seemed to have taken up residence in the Gascon’s head. He gave a shaky nod as his thick fingers fumbled with the clasps on his doublet. After several seconds, he found himself unable to unfasten them, and he looked down to stare at the uncooperative bindings, hoping that seeing them would help. As his head tilted downwards, the ground beneath his feet seemed to shift. Unprepared for his sudden vertigo, his body slipped sideways, the concerned voices of his friends’ following him as darkness stole his awareness.


	15. Scarcity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you saying that you would let d’Artagnan die to save Jaccoud?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the speculation after the last chapter about the infections that seem to have come on quite quickly. Hope you enjoy what comes next.

“What the hell?”

 

“d’Artagnan!”

 

“Catch him!”

 

The three exclamations were nearly synchronized, and Athos had no idea which words he’d uttered as he registered the Gascon’s sudden, sideways swoon. Without conscious thought, he reached for the young man, a cry slipping past his lips as he grabbed d’Artagnan’s left arm with his right hand. His friend’s dead weight pulled against him, and he felt the tender skin around his stitches stretch unbearably, but he refused to release his hold. It took several long seconds before Porthos, who sat on Athos’ left, and Aramis, who’d been standing in front of him, were able to reach the Gascon and take some of his weight.

 

“It’s alright, Athos,” Aramis said, letting his warm hand fall on the older man’s where it was wrapped around d’Artagnan’s arm.

 

“We’ve got ‘im,” Porthos’ deep baritone followed, and Athos found himself almost sobbing in relief as he released his own hold, letting his injured arm drop slowly to his side.

 

“I’ll be taking a look at that later,” Aramis promised, motioning to Athos’ wound. The older man merely gave a distracted nod as he watched his friends lower his protégé to the ground.

 

“What happened?” Athos was startled by the question that he’d been about to voice himself, but which Riout had beaten him to. Obviously drawn by the commotion surrounding d’Artagnan’s collapse, the man had left his seat and joined them.

 

Aramis’ reply was short and curt, his words fueled by the fear that his earlier concerns were about to be realized. “He’s feverish.” As the others watched, he deftly pulled d’Artagnan’s doublet apart, next lifting the linen of his shirt, in order to access the bandages underneath. Within moments, he’d exposed the wound and was rocking back on his heels as he announced in a defeated tone, “It’s infected.”

 

“Bloody hell,” Porthos muttered as he dragged a hand down his face.

 

“How bad?” Athos asked, keeping his exterior façade calm despite the emotions that were roiling beneath the surface.

 

Aramis considered for a moment before he replied. “Not too bad yet, and it’s early enough that we may be able to prevent things from getting any worse.”

 

The older man gave a tight nod as he said, “Do what you have to.” From past experience, he knew that dealing with infected wounds was almost worse than the initial injury, and could well imagine the medic’s next steps.

 

“Porthos, will you stay with him while I get my bag?” the marksman asked as he stood. The larger man gave a dip of his chin in agreement, scooting closer to the Gascon and gently lifting the young man’s head to rest against his thigh. Athos gently lowered himself to the ground as well, settling on d’Artagnan’s right side where he wouldn’t be in the way. Seeing the Inseparables gather around their unconscious friend, Riout drifted away, the others making it obvious through their actions that he wasn’t needed or wanted there.

 

When Aramis returned with his bag, he retook his previous position on the Gascon’s left, pulling his main gauche to telegraph his intentions. Athos grasped d’Artagnan’s right hand, while Porthos held his left, pulling the arm up and away from his side so that Aramis would have unobstructed access to the wound. Taking a steadying breath, the medic placed his sharp blade beneath the first stitch, cutting through it quickly and easily.

 

The first touch of the cold blade against his skin had d’Artagnan coming around, his head beginning to loll against Porthos’ thigh. The large man put his free hand against the young man’s cheek, trying to ease his transition into consciousness. The Gascon settled for a moment at the touch of his friend’s hand, and then gasped lowly as the next stitch in his side was cut. Squeezing his hand, Athos soothed, “It’s alright, d’Artagnan, you’re safe. Aramis is just tending to your wound.”

 

The Gascon winced as the next bit of thread broke, but some of Athos’ words must have gotten through as he didn’t try to resist. Opening his eyes, he blinked owlishly as he cleared his blurry vision, his gaze settling first on Athos and then Aramis. “What’re you doing?”

 

The medic paused in his work to answer the young man’s question. “Your wound is infected. I need to remove the stitches so I can properly clean it out.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a shaky nod as he replied, “Thought so.”

 

“You knew your wound was infected but didn’t say anything?” Athos tone was sharp as he posed the question, and he felt bad a moment later when he saw the Gascon’s flinch.

 

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan said. “I wasn’t sure, but I felt…off.” The misery etched on the young man’s face as Aramis returned to his task had Porthos taking pity on him.

 

Squeezing the Gascon’s shoulder, while still maintaining a hold on his left arm, the large man assured, “It’s alright, lad. Aramis will fix you up in no time.” d’Artagnan made a half-hearted attempt to lift his head to look at the man acting as his pillow, but soon gave up when he found the energy needed for movement was too great for his weakened body.

 

Having cut all of the stitches, Aramis set about pulling the loose threads out, ignoring the look of disgust on the Gascon’s face. He knew that the sensation was a less than pleasant one, but it was a minor irritant compared to what would follow. He prepared the rest of his supplies at his side before addressing his patient again. “d’Artagnan, I’m going to have to open the wound now so I can clean out the infection. This will hurt.”

 

The Gascon could hear the regret in the medic’s voice, and resolved to make things as easy as possible for the man. “It’s alright, Aramis; do what you have to.”

 

With an expression of gratitude, the marksman turned to his task. Using a set of forceps, which he’d earlier doused in brandy, he pried the skin apart and opened the wound. Ignoring the swallowed grunt of pain from his patient, he completed a quick visual examination before pressing a clean piece of cloth inside, following the path of the blade that had pierced the young man’s body.

 

As soon as Aramis’ fingers entered the wound, d’Artagnan’s back arched, and Athos and Porthos tightened their grips, the latter man shifting his hold from one of comfort to one of restraint. The Gascon did his best to hold himself still, but each movement of the linen being used to remove the pus from his side sent fiery shards of pain up and down his torso. He was gasping now with almost every breath, and Aramis worked as quickly as he could, unaware of the fact that he was speaking to the Gascon. “Steady, d’Artagnan. I’m almost done. Just a bit more.” The platitudes rolled off his tongue without thought as his entire focus remained on removing all traces of infection from the wound.

 

When Aramis finally withdrew, d’Artagnan fairly collapsed against the ground, and Porthos again switched his hold to place one hand on the young man’s cheek. “Well done, d’Artagnan. You’re past the worst of it.” Over the Gascon’s body, Athos and Porthos traded knowing glances, recognizing the deceitfulness of the latter man’s words.

 

Aramis wiped his hands of the pus and blood from d’Artagnan’s wound before reaching for two new items. Meeting Athos’ and then Porthos’ gaze to confirm their readiness, he tipped the bottle of brandy, noting idly as he poured that he was getting close to the bottom of the container. With the linen in his other hand, he wiped away the mixture of fluids that covered d’Artagnan’s stomach afterwards.

 

As they’d expected, the Gascon’s body had jolted at the first touch of the strong alcohol, but he hadn’t fought them, simply biting his lower lip to contain his sounds of pain. Once the agony of having his wound disinfected had ended, he collapsed bonelessly once more, his eyes closing of their own accord. His friends looked on as d’Artagnan’s chest jerked irregularly with each stuttering breath as he battled the residual pain.

 

Placing his hand lightly on the Gascon’s chest, Aramis said, “I’m finished.” Still squeezing his eyes tightly closed, the young man gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Waiting a moment longer until d’Artagnan’s breathing resumed a more regular pattern, the medic placed a square of linen on top of the wound as he explained, “We’ll leave it open for now.” All of them knew this was in case it needed to be cleaned again, but none of them were willing to voice the words, praying that it wouldn’t come to that.

 

Noting their friend’s weakened state, Aramis asked, “Porthos, can you help me sit him up?” The large man carefully released the Gascon’s arm, returning it to its previous position at d’Artagnan’s side, before moving his hands beneath their friend’s shoulders. The medic waited for the large man to push d’Artagnan towards him before quickly wrapping a length of bandage around his middle to keep the wound covered.

 

With a nod to Porthos, the large man lowered d’Artagnan back to the ground, the Gascon releasing a sigh at finally being allowed to rest. “Do you want something for the pain?” he heard Aramis ask, and he merely shook his head tiredly, not even bothering to open his eyes. Within seconds, he was fast asleep, the pain mercifully fading as his awareness fled. 

* * *

“Do you think cleaning the wound will be sufficient?” Athos asked from the bank of the small stream where he stood watching the medic. He’d followed his friend after his arm had been checked, presumably under the guise of keeping him company; in truth, he’d wanted to ask about the medic’s choice of treatment. At his question, he noted the stiffening of Aramis’ back, the medic’s hands stilling for a moment before resuming their rhythmic movement as he washed the soiled linen.

 

It was far from preferred to wash and reuse bandages, but the wounds their group had suffered had required all of Aramis’ limited supplies, and he was now virtually out of clean linen. The marksman’s voice was subdued as he replied, “We can only pray that it is.”

 

Behind him, Athos frowned in irritation at the noncommittal response, wanting some guarantee that d’Artagnan would recover. “Why didn’t you apply a poultice instead?”

 

Aramis sighed softly as he reminded himself of the bond between Athos and his protégé. If the decision had been his alone, he would have already applied the poultice, using the combination of herbs to draw out the infection that was currently poisoning their young friend. But he had other lives to consider, and the decision was not as easy as Athos perceived it to be. “I’ll give it some time to see if cleaning the wound was enough,” he responded evenly, keeping all emotion from his voice.

 

“Wouldn’t he have a better chance if you applied a poultice now instead of later?” the older man pressed, still unsatisfied with his friend’s responses.

 

“Perhaps,” the medic acquiesced, wringing out a freshly-washed bandage and setting it to one side.

 

Athos stepped closer as he said, “Aramis, I’ve never had reason to question your judgement when it comes to our health.”

 

“Mmm,” the medic murmured, waiting for the older man to continue.

 

“But it seems to me that you could be more aggressive in dealing with d’Artagnan’s infection,” Athos finished.

 

Setting the last square of linen aside, Aramis finally rose and turned to face his friend, hoping he could find the words to explain his dilemma. “You know how seriously I take the responsibility of caring for everyone’s health, and I’ve always done my best to prepare the necessary medical supplies for our missions.” Athos was nodding in agreement. “When we were assigned this mission, the herbalist was running low on certain items.” He momentarily looked down at the ground as he dragged a hand through his curls. “It was _just_ a training mission, and I believed we would be fine. It was foolish of me, I know,” he said as he sadly shook his head.

 

“Aramis, what are you saying?” Athos asked, having drawn even closer to his friend as he registered the anguish on the medic’s face.

 

“I have only enough supplies for one poultice,” the marksman admitted, his voice low as he replied.

 

“Then why didn’t you use it on d’Artagnan?” Athos queried, still not comprehending his friend’s inaction.

 

“Jaccoud is ill, and his infection is more advanced than d’Artagnan’s,” the medic countered gently, praying for his friend to understand.

 

The older man stared at him silently for several moments, a hint of anger coloring his words as he replied, “Are you saying that you would let d’Artagnan die to save Jaccoud?”

 

The implication of Athos’ statement immediately drew an expression of horror from Aramis as he exclaimed, “Of course, not!” He paused for a moment as he searched for the right words to explain. “I have a duty to both of them, and to God.” His tone turned pleading as he said, “Please understand, Athos, I can’t _choose_ to save one and let the other die, but I only have the means to save one. What would you have me do?”

 

As the older man’s expression shifted, Aramis received the answer to his question, indicating without a doubt that Athos wanted the focus to be on d’Artagnan. The medic’s face fell as he quietly admitted, “I can’t do that. I can’t pick who will live and who will die.”

 

The former comte’s eyes shuttered, and Aramis could tell that his friend was now having his own battle of conscience. While Athos could try to order the medic to use his limited supplies on the Gascon, he could not knowingly put one man’s life above another. To do so would go against the brotherhood of the Musketeers, and would be an act against God. While Athose acknowledged those two truths, his heart warred with his brain, reminding him of the empty place that d’Artagnan had filled.

 

He'd never set out to find a replacement for Thomas, and had actually gone to great lengths to keep those around him at a distance, fearing any attachments that might cause him to experience the same sort of pain that his brother’s death had brought. Even Aramis and Porthos had needed the advantage of time before they were considered anything more than fellow soldiers, and eventually very close friends.

But d’Artagnan was different.

 

The young man had forced his way into their midst with all the grace of a torrential summer storm, similar to the one which had raged on the night when d’Artagnan had lost his father. Despite the complete lack of finesse, the Gascon had swiftly moved from trusted acquaintance, to dear friend, and then firmly entrenched himself as brother. Athos recognized that Aramis and Porthos felt similarly about their young friend, which meant that the marksman was struggling with his decision just as much as he now was.

 

With that realization, Athos swallowed thickly, certain that he could not ask Aramis to go against his faith to provide d’Artagnan with a level of care that would disadvantage Jaccoud. He desperately wished that he could, but it was an order he was certain would fracture the bond between them, and he reminded himself that things weren’t that grave – yet. With a stiff nod, he said, “I defer to your expertise.”

 

Aramis’ smile of gratitude told him that he’d chosen correctly, and he tried to offer a smile in return as a small part of his brain screamed at him to reconsider his decision.


	16. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His actions required strength, and he found himself praying for the courage necessary to follow through on his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read and comment on this story. I hope you enjoy this next part.

Although Riout had privately seethed at being dismissed by the Inseparables while they cared for their injured friend, he was satisfied that his plan was progressing as expected. He’d initially bristled at the distrust that Athos and the others had shown him, making their views clear in their actions if not their words, but his irritation at their dismissal was rapidly fading as d’Artagnan’s condition progressively worsened. It appeared that Jaccoud would be sacrificed for his part in the plan, but Riout was comfortable with that outcome, recognizing that every war had its victims.

 

He mused quietly at the turn his life had taken as he stared unseeingly into the fire. Within the span of a year he’d gone from distinguished Musketeer to disgraced soldier, leaving Paris under the threat of arrest. Looking back on things, Treville had been kind, although he hadn’t thought so at the time. Instead of revealing his role in inadvertently causing the death of two of his brothers in arms, the Captain had offered the option to head north, where he would remove his pauldron and disappear forever. Riout had been forced to accept the man’s offer, faced with the alternative fate of incarceration at the Chatelet. He’d never been fully confident that Treville would have followed through on his threat, but he hadn’t had enough courage to test the man’s resolve, choosing instead to leave Paris as quickly as his horse would carry him.

 

That he would find himself sought out and recruited by his current benefactor had been unexpected, but something for which he was eminently grateful. There were few options available to former soldiers, and the role he’d been offered, along with a generous allowance, was more than he had dreamed of when he’d ridden away from the Musketeer garrison.

 

Taking a sip of wine, he hid the smirk that appeared on his face as he observed Aramis’ ministrations. The Gascon was writhing as the medic poured a hefty dose of strong brandy on the open wound, introducing more poison into the young man’s system. Lowering his cup, he silently applauded his decision to foul the bottle of alcohol, remembering well the bite of the strong spirit that Aramis invariably used to clean soldiers’ wounds. It was ironic that the medic believed his actions would return his friend to good health, while in reality, every drop of brandy used was doing the exact opposite. He bit the inside of his cheek to contain his smile of glee.

 

Soon, the injured men’s conditions would prove to be dire, placing them beyond help. That would signal Riout’s triumph, and mark his greatest success thus far since being hired. With that accomplishment, he would finally be able to return to Paris, safe from Treville’s authority under the protection of his benefactor. It was fitting that the death of two Musketeers had ended his time in the grand city, and the death of two more would enable his return.

 

His gaze drifted back to the Inseparables, and he noted that Aramis was done. The medic’s entire countenance screamed of weariness, but despite that, he steadfastly continued to carry out his responsibilities, chivvying Athos into taking a seat and removing his doublet so he could check the older man’s arm. Meanwhile, Porthos placed himself protectively at the Gascon’s side, and Riout again congratulated himself on his plan, which allowed him to complete his mission from a distance, knowing that the others would never allow anyone close now that d’Artagnan’s condition was deteriorating.

 

Throwing back the last of his wine, he leaned back comfortably, happy to wait patiently while things continued to unfold. 

* * *

Petit wiped the damp cloth across Jaccoud’s sweaty face, trying to offer the ill man some relief from the fever that burned through his veins. A part of him resented his role as caregiver to the injured man, but he grudgingly admitted that Aramis had spent most of the night tending the ailing men as well, and he looked shrunken and worn as a result.

 

Both of the wounded men had slept, albeit fitfully, for several hours before their temperatures soared to dangerous levels. At that point, they’d stripped Jaccoud and d’Artagnan down to their braies, hoping the cool night air would steal away some of the heat from the men’s overheated bodies. The Gascon had calmed somewhat, and Aramis had been elated, until he’d checked on the recruit’s wound and discovered the infection was growing worse.

 

At that point, he and Athos had moved away from their camp, and he’d heard the sound of low-pitched voices as they argued. When they returned, both men’s shoulders were stiff with tension, and Lebas had been ordered to the stream to fill everyone’s water skins. So began the process of cleaning Jaccoud’s wound again, followed by unendingly wiping down his body with wet cloths to leach away some of the heat. Within an hour, d’Artagnan was receiving the same treatment, and Petit could only assume that the other man was also worsening.

 

Petit paused in his ministrations as Aramis approached, and he looked upwards at the medic’s face with a questioning expression. In the light and shadows of the fire, the marksman appeared to have aged a decade over the last few hours, worry lines etched deeply into his forehead and around his eyes. The recruit knew that it was more than the lack of sleep that was affecting the other man. It was the responsibility the medic felt for his charges, and his guilt at not having been able to pull them out of the downward spiral they seemed to be caught in, each minute dragging them further from life and closer to oblivion.

 

“Any change?” Aramis asked perfunctorily, even though he already knew the answer.

 

Petit shook his head, noting the look of resignation on the medic’s face. “Surely, there’s something more we can do. A poultice perhaps?”

 

Aramis managed a weary, bitter smile and his eyes grew unfocused for a moment. “How can I choose?” he mumbled, almost too quietly for the other man to hear.

 

Petit frowned at the odd words, choosing to ignore them for the time being. “I have some idea of the herbs that might help. If you need help…” he trailed off at the strange expression that appeared on the medic’s face.

 

Sighing deeply, Aramis scrubbed a hand tiredly across his face, remaining quiet for several long moments until he replied, “The help I need is not within your power to give.”

 

Petit had no response for the odd statement, so he decided to remain silent until the other man said something more. Aramis observed Jaccoud for over a minute, a private battle clearly waging within him, until his eyes cleared and a new resolve seemed to take hold.

 

Offering a tight nod to Petit, he said, “Keep doing what you’re doing while I prepare a poultice.”

 

Petit graced the other man with a slight smile of relief, pleased that the marksman had decided to follow his advice. He was surprised when he noted the desolation in the other man’s eyes, and thankful when Aramis turned away from him to do as he’d said. Shivering slightly, he tried to ignore the feeling of dread that had fallen over him as he rewet the cloth in his hands and returned to his task. 

* * *

Aramis had collected all the supplies he needed for the poultice, settling himself a short distance away from d’Artagnan. As he worked, he glanced guiltily at Athos, the older man currently dozing while Porthos watched over their ill friend.

 

Contrary to Athos’ earlier insinuation, he didn’t take this decision lightly, nor did he consider one man’s life more important than another’s, even when one of those lives belonged to the Gascon. When he and Athos had argued, Aramis had known that Jaccoud’s condition was grave. Though he’d refused to say so aloud, he’d also known that the likelihood of needing to use the potentially life-saving poultice on Jaccoud was high, leaving d’Artagnan to fend off the deadly infection on his own.

 

He pushed the haft of his knife harshly against the herbs in the cup, grinding them into a fine powder, his frustration with the situation fueling his actions. Some part of him recognized that with each movement of his hands, he was not only destroying the dried plants, but grinding into the dust the bond of brotherhood between himself and his friends. His vision blurred momentarily and he blinked away the moisture that was obscuring his vision, stubbornly refusing to allow even a single tear to fall as he began to mourn his impending loss.

 

He'd once told his friends that there was no way to predict the future, and that it was God’s will if a man lived or died. In that instant, he felt like a hypocrite, having made the choice to use his limited supplies to prolong one man’s life at the sacrifice of his friend’s. In his frustration, his fingers slipped and he nearly dropped the cup he held. Letting out a long, shuddering breath, he murmured softly to himself, “Steady.” Even as he said the words, a part of him wondered _what if?_ What if he’d spilled the herbs, so that no poultice could be made? What if both men were left to fight on their own, God making the decision about which man, if either, to spare? The relief offered by that option was nearly euphoric, leaving Aramis momentarily lightheaded until he forcibly returned himself to reality.

 

No. He’d made the decision to act as healer for his brothers in arms, just as he’d made the decision to abide by God’s teachings. Both roles were so fully ingrained in him, that they were just as much a part of his nature as being a soldier was. No matter the cost, he could not abandon either principle, regardless of the heartache his decision wrought. With a shaky hand, he reached for his water skin, allowing a small amount of liquid to trickle into the cup so that he could work his mixture into a paste.

 

He stared at the contents of the vessel in his hands, wondering at how the innocuous greyish-green mixture could hold the power to save someone’s life. Breathing in, he swallowed a sob, cursing himself for the hundredth time for ever being lulled into believing there was such a thing as an easy mission. If only he’d been more diligent about restocking his supplies, then both men might be saved, and he would never have found himself in his current position. Dropping his head, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling the tears that threatened once more.

 

He stayed that way for nearly a minute, focusing on his breathing until he’d regained a small measure of control over his emotions. His actions required strength, and he found himself praying for the courage necessary to follow through on his decision. Slowly, his hands began moving once more, as he finished preparing the thick paste.

 

Reaching a hand to one side for the clean bandages he’d placed there, he was startled by the strong fingers that encircled his wrist, forcing him to look over for their source. Athos’ eyes were hard as the older man demanded, “What are you doing?” 

* * *

“Let’s just talk about this calmly,” Porthos suggested as he took in the sight of his two closest friends at odds with one another. Given their aggressive body language, it was obvious that neither man was ready to back down. The realization made the large man frown as he attempted to comprehend what had divided the two so completely. “Now, what’s got the two of you fightin’ like a pair of feral cats in the middle of the night?”

 

The argument between the two men had started quietly, and Porthos hadn’t even known anything was amiss until they’d rocketed to their feet. He’d been consumed with d’Artagnan’s care, and had noted idly that Athos was awake and moving towards Aramis, presumably to get an update on their friend’s condition. After a few softly exchanged words, which Porthos had largely ignored since they’d been spoken too lowly for him to hear, they’d risen, each man offering a silent, but deadly challenge to the other. It was then that Porthos realized something was wrong, and he’d collected his friends and pulled them to the outskirts of their camp, the flames of their fire leaving them in deep shadow that provided just enough light to see the strong emotions deeply etched into each man’s features.

 

“Well?” the large man prompted when neither man replied.

 

“I need to get back to my patients,” Aramis stiffly replied, hoping to end their confrontation quickly by letting Athos know his decision wasn’t up for debate.

 

“To use that poultice you were preparing on d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, daring the marksman to disagree and reveal his treachery in front of Porthos.

 

The large man looked between his friends when Aramis’ only response was the thinning of his closed lips. “Is that what you were doing, ‘Mis?” he asked gently, hoping to coax a reply from the man.

 

There was devastation in Aramis’ eyes as he glanced first at the older man and then at Porthos, dropping his head between his shoulders as he shook his head. “No,” he admitted brokenly, still staring down at his feet.

 

Porthos placed a hand on the medic’s shoulder, squeezing lightly to encourage his friend to keep talking. “Jaccoud needs it more?” he questioned, already confident of the answer, and unsurprised when Aramis gave a short nod. Licking his lips, the large man prepared to ask the question he dreaded, but needed to know the answer to. “You don’t have enough supplies for more than the one poultice,” he stated softly, receiving another shaky bob of Aramis’ head.

 

He squeezed the medic’s shoulder again as he sighed. It was the only thing that made any sense, and only Athos’ worry for one of his brothers could turn him against another. “Athos, if Aramis thinks this is necessary, then it probably is,” Porthos began reasonably, turning his attention to the older man.

 

Athos’ expression was thunderous as he spat, “Are you saying that you agree with his decision to help Jaccoud while d’Artagnan may be dying?”

 

“Athos,” the large man started. “We don’t know that that’s the case. For all we know, d’Artagnan’s fever may break in the morning, and he’ll be up and about by the afternoon. Right, ‘Mis?”

 

Aramis wanted desperately to agree with his friend’s assertion, but he couldn’t lie to them. Although there were no certainties when it came to healing a man’s wound, his instincts screamed at him that by morning, d’Artagnan’s condition was likely to be as grave as Jaccoud’s was now. With effort, he shook his head and replied, “It’s unlikely.”

 

“Exactly,” Athos hissed triumphantly, certain that Porthos would side with him and convince the medic to use the poultice on the Gascon’s wound.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Aramis countered, his face lifting and his anger flaring once more at the position he’d been placed in. “It will be too late by morning. Should d’Artagnan recover, there will be no way to turn back time and save Jaccoud.”

 

“Then the answer is simple,” Athos stated haughtily, reminding his friends of the noble line from which he’d come. “Use it on d’Artagnan.”

 

“No,” Aramis replied. “To do so guarantees Jaccoud’s death. d’Artagnan’s fate is still unknown; Jaccoud’s is not.” Tension slipped from his frame as his expression turned pleading. “I cannot condemn a man to death when I have the means to save him.”

 

Athos was about launch another verbal attack when Porthos’ hand on his upper arm stopped him. To his surprise, the larger man’s face showed a mixture of compassion and sadness as he shook his head in a silent request to stop. Athos had expected that the large man would side with him, and help him convince Aramis to save the Gascon. Instead, Porthos seemed to comprehend Aramis’ dilemma in a way that he did not, and it made him pause as he wondered what he’d missed.

 

As though reading his thoughts, Porthos offered an answer to the older man’s unspoken question. “There was never enough, of anything, in the Court, and we had to make do with what we had,” he began. “While it seems harsh, Aramis is right. He has to base his decision on the current circumstances, not on what may or may not happen later.”

 

Athos’ shock showed clearly on his face as he tried, but failed to understand Porthos’ position. “But he may die,” he managed to mumble, still unwilling to accept that possibility.

 

Porthos nodded sagely as he replied, “And he may live. d’Artagnan’s strong, and we’ll pray he’s strong enough to survive this. But, either way, do you think _he’s_ strong enough to do nothing?” Porthos asked, as he motioned with his chin towards the marksman.

 

The breath seemed to rush from Athos’ chest as he comprehended what he was asking of his friend – of both his friends. He was asking them to knowingly and willingly let a man die on the off-chance that d’Artagnan could be saved. In that moment, he knew he could not ask either man to live with that on their conscience, no matter how badly he might want to.

 

Closing his eyes, he cursed their lack of supplies, something which he’d never had to experience growing up when everything he’d needed was plentiful. Next, he cursed their circumstances, which placed them far away from any sort of help, with enemies in their midst who were likely responsible for their current predicament. Lastly, he cursed duty and his friends’ honor, which guided them to do the right thing even though he’d tried to convince them otherwise. They were far better men than he, and d’Artagnan might die because of it.

 

Opening his eyes, he offered a slight nod to Porthos. It was an acknowledgement that he understood, although he would never be able to claim agreement. He pinned the medic with a hard look as he said, “Aramis, I will never forgive you if he dies.” His words were heavily coloured with a mix of sincerity and pleading that almost had the medic changing his mind.

 

Swallowing thickly, Aramis knew his friend was offering him a promise, not a threat, and it was something their friendship would never recover from if the worst came to be. Steeling his resolve, while pushing aside the overwhelming sadness that accompanied his reply, he simply said, “I know.” With that, he turned and walked away from them, intent on completing what he’d started.


	17. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s not going for help. He’s the one who did this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad you enjoyed the twist in the last chapter and I hope you like what's coming next.

As soon as he saw Aramis return, Riout pushed up from where he’d been sitting and went in search of Athos and Porthos. It had been obvious that they’d been arguing, and he could well guess the focus of their discussion, given that both of their wounded were progressively getting worse. While his arrival had been timely and enabled him to ensure his benefactor’s plan was being carried out, his own survival was now competing with his mission, and he sensed that it was time to bid a hasty retreat.

 

He’d known his time among the Musketeers was limited as soon as he’d experienced the first traces of distrust from his former comrades. It hadn’t surprised him, but he’d been left feeling a little unbalanced at the pang of regret he’d felt at the reminder that he’d never again be one of them. But he was a practical man, and rather than dwelling on what could never be, he’d focused on accomplishing his mission in a way that wouldn’t require his presence at the end. To his mind, he’d accomplished just that.

 

He didn’t have to go far to find the men he sought, and he steadfastly ignored Porthos’ glare at his arrival. It was clear that things were still unsettled, and Athos looked especially anxious about whatever had transpired between the three. Pushing aside his own discomfort at interrupting their private conversation, he strode directly up to Athos. “The wounded men aren’t improving,” he stated, no hint of a question in his tone. “I assume that if Aramis had the means to heal them, he would have done so.” He noted the older man’s flinch at his words, and silently congratulated himself on his perception. “It’s time for someone to go for help, and I’m the logical choice,” he concluded.

 

Athos looked inordinately weary as he replied, “It’s best if we do not divide our forces.”

 

Having anticipated such an argument, Riout countered, “You’re not. Since I wasn’t part of your original mission, I am the extra man. I won’t question why you don’t want to send anyone else, but given that fact, it only makes sense that I am the one to go.”

 

Athos glanced at Porthos, the two men engaging in a silent conversation in front of the third man. Riout held his tongue as his irritation with the Musketeers’ conduct grew, but he knew his best chance of succeeding was to remain cooperative.

 

Given the men’s expressions, they appeared divided, however Porthos was apparently willing to entertain the idea of Riout travelling to bring back assistance. “Where would you go?” he asked.

 

“There’s a village about three hours’ ride from here, but I doubt they’d have a physician or anyone else who could help. I could try and borrow a cart there, if you believe that’s best…” he trailed off, gauging the men’s thoughts by their expressions. Deciding they were thrilled with that option, he continued. “The nearest town that might have a physician is six, maybe seven, hours away. If I leave now, I could be back by late afternoon.”

 

Athos was uncharacteristically worrying his lower lip, while Porthos tugged at his beard, as they considered the two options presented. The larger man had listened carefully as Riout offered his suggestions, comparing what he remembered of the area with the other man’s descriptions. Unable to find any fault with his words, he spoke first. “Bringing back a physician seems like the better alternative.”

 

Athos’ gaze darted to his friend’s as he unconsciously laid his hand across the stitches on his upper arm, the wound obviously troubling him. “Nearly a day’s ride there and another one back,” he said softly, thinking out loud.

 

“I’ll get a fresh horse when I get there,” Riout responded, knowing he was close to gaining the older man’s agreement. Needing to push both men just a little further, he adopted a forlorn expression as he added, “I don’t think they’ll last much longer, otherwise, do you?”

 

His final statement had clinched things, and he could tell even before either man spoke that he’d won. With a curt nod, Athos replied, “Alright. Head out as soon as you’re ready.” Wasting no time, Riout nodded back and turned neatly on his heel. He wasn’t able to hide the wide grin on his face as he walked swiftly to his horse, having already packed his things and saddled the animal in preparation. He easily swung himself into his seat, nudging the horse into motion immediately. Without even a single glance back at the camp, he quickly melted into the darkness.

* * *

Aramis’ hands fumbled as he spread the thick paste onto a piece of clean linen. After the heated conversation with Athos, he’d quickly returned to his place near the fire to complete his work, needing to place the poultice on Jaccoud’s wound before he lost his resolve. He couldn’t help but glance guiltily at d’Artagnan, the young man still sleeping fitfully with a sheen of sweat covering his brow. It was obvious the Gascon wasn’t doing well, and the medic decided to check once more on his friend before applying the poultice.

 

Folding the prepared linen in half to protect the mixture that covered it, he set it to one side and moved to kneel next to the young man. He automatically reached for the cloth that Porthos had been using to cool their friend, refreshing it with more water before wiping it across the Gascon’s forehead, cheeks, and neck. The sensation roused his patient, and Aramis found himself waiting patiently to see if d’Artagnan would open his eyes. Moments later he was greeted with the sight of two clouded orbs seeking his own.

 

Smiling down at the young man, Aramis said, “How are you feeling?”

 

The Gascon frowned slightly at the question, his lids already sliding to half-mast as he replied, “Tired.”

 

Patting his friend’s shoulder, the medic assured, “That’s perfectly normal. Your body is using a lot of energy to fight off the infection.” d’Artagnan offered a slight nod of acknowledgement. “You should drink,” Aramis said, reaching for the water skin. He helped the young man take several small sips before allowing him to rest, easing the Gascon’s head back onto the folded blanket that cushioned it.

 

“Feel awful,” d’Artagnan breathed out, imploring the marksman to ease his suffering in some way.

 

Aramis’ gaze danced over to the poultice for a heartbeat before he a arranged his features into a neutral expression and said, “I should check your wound again.”

 

The Gascon didn’t react in any way, and the medic took his lack of response as permission, pulling the blanket up on one side so he could access the bandage beneath. It only took a second to confirm what he’d feared – d’Artagnan’s infection was growing worse, and without medical intervention, he would be beyond help within hours. Replacing the bandage, he let the blanket fall back into place, the Gascon already shivering from the cool night air on his skin.

 

“Am I dying?” d’Artagnan breathed out.

 

The question stunned the medic for a moment as he realized that his thoughts must have appeared on his face. At a loss for how to answer, he replied, “You must keep fighting.”

 

The Gascon’s eyes focused for an instant, and Aramis had to fight the urge to look away from his friend’s pale face. Inhaling shakily, d’Artagnan hummed noncommittally, prompting the medic to grasp the young man’s shoulder again. Squeezing a little harder than he’d intended, Aramis persisted as he repeated his earlier command. “Do _not_ stop fighting.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face registered surprise at the medic’s vehement plea, but he offered a slight nod in reply. Aramis released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as he softly murmured, “Good, that’s very good.” Taking a second to collect himself, he asked, “How is your pain?”

 

Dragging his lids open once more, the Gascon replied, “Doesn’t hurt.” With that, his eyes closed, and the medic knew the young man had again succumbed to the effects of the fever that ravaged his body.

 

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the minor trembling of his limbs as he acknowledged d’Artagnan’s poor condition. An hour ago, the decision to apply the poultice to Jaccoud’s wound had been easier, but now, it seemed that both men’s need might be equal, yet his ability to heal the men hadn’t changed. Unknowingly, his hand reached for the cross at his neck, finding comfort in the familiar object as he agonized about what to do next.

 

As he stood in quiet contemplation, Athos and Porthos returned, prompting Petit to rise from his comrade’s side to address the Musketeers. “Jaccoud has asked to speak with you,” he said, encompassing all three men in his gaze.

 

The request brought Aramis back to the present, and he idly noted his friends’ return, the two men already moving to the wounded man’s side. With effort, he managed to get his feet moving to follow them. In deference to the ailing man, they sat or crouched around him, Aramis choosing to place himself next to Petit, while Athos and Porthos placed themselves on Jaccoud’s other side.

 

The ill man immediately zoned in on Aramis. “I’m dying,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. The medic immediately sought the words that would encourage his patient to battle the infection in his leg, but Jaccoud interrupted him before he could voice more than a word or two. Shaking his head, he said, “Save your platitudes. I know you’ve done your best, and you need to accept that it’s not enough.”

 

Refusing to accept Jaccoud’s apparent defeat, Aramis countered, “It often takes a while to turn the tide against an infection. With time, you’ll begin feeling better.”

 

The recruit’s face twisted into an odd, mirthless grin, the effect ruined by the way he gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg. “Face facts, I’m not going to survive this,” he replied.

 

Despite their recent disagreement, Aramis sought out his friend’s gazes, silently asking them for help. As Porthos drew breath to speak, Jaccoud gave a weak shake of his head. “Don’t. Look, I didn’t ask you to come over here to fight with you. I need to tell you something…” He let the words hang for a moment, the men around him silently completing his sentence: _while I still can._

 

Clearing his throat to break the quiet, Athos asked, “What is it you wish to tell us?”

 

Jaccoud’s eyes searched for Petit’s, and the two men locked gazes for a moment before the latter man gave a slow nod of permission. Shifting his attention back to the older man, the recruit began to speak. “What’s happened, it was no accident.”

 

Porthos gave an inelegant snort, but his face was deadly serious as he said, “You don’t say. You mean you didn’t _fall_ and somehow lodge a piece of wood into your leg?”

 

Jaccoud’s features momentarily showed annoyance, clearly irritated by the larger man’s comment, but too ill and weak to hang on to the emotion for more than a split-second. “No,” he admitted. “I didn’t fall, but that’s not what I’m referring to.”

 

“What _are_ you referring to?” Athos questioned, some of his fatigue dropping away at the thought of finally getting some answers.

 

Contempt flashed across Jaccoud’s face as he replied, “d’Artagnan.”

 

Immediately, the Musketeers’ bodies stiffened with tension, Athos unable to stop himself from leaning closer to the recruit. “What are you saying?”

 

Another look passed between the injured man and his comrade, confirming that the former man should continue. “There was nothing accidental about his run of bad luck,” Jaccoud explained. He winced and closed his eyes as the effort of speaking became too much for his weakened body.

 

Seeing his friend’s state, Petit took up the tale, licking his lips nervously before he began to speak. “We were hired to make him look incompetent…”

 

He was interrupted by Porthos’ irate tone, “Hired by whom?”

 

Petit offered a very unsatisfactory shrug as he answered, “I don’t know. But whoever it was has deep pockets and hates d’Artagnan.”

 

While Porthos had posed his question, Athos had realized the greater implication behind the recruit’s words and now sought clarification. “You said _we_ ; to whom are you referring?”

 

Petit worried his lower lip nervously as he stared at the Musketeers’ angry faces. Finally finding the nerve to reply, he answered, “All of us; me, Jaccoud and Lebas.”

 

Several seconds of stunned silence followed Petit’s admission, thoughts swirling madly in the minds of the Inseparables. _Where was Lebas? Which of them had hurt Jaccoud? What of Viellard?_

 

Athos clearly recalled the look of accomplishment on the dead recruit’s face just before he’d been killed. He needed to know if the man had redeemed himself in his final moments or if they’d misjudged him all along. “Viellard?” he asked, receiving a sad nod in reply, confirming that there had been four of them in league against d’Artagnan the entire time.

 

Aramis had been quiet so far, his mind already overwhelmed with the condition of his patients, but he seemed to rouse now as he asked, “Did one of you stab d’Artagnan?” The Gascon’s injury was still a mystery, and he suddenly felt an all-encompassing need to know who was to blame for their friend’s wound.

 

Petit blanched uncomfortably and his voice trembled as he replied, “That was me.”

 

In the blink of an eye, the marksman was on the recruit, roughly pushing him to the ground and holding him in place with his hands wrapped around the collar of his doublet. “You bastard,” he hissed. “I defended you.” Regret weighed heavily on him as he recalled explaining to his friends why Petit must be innocent, and how the young man had helped him to check on the wounded men.

 

“Aramis,” Athos spoke sharply, his anger at the recruit just as great, but recognizing that they still had too many unanswered questions. The marksman’s chest was heaving with emotion, and he stared at the older man for several long seconds before releasing his hold on the other man. Pushing himself up, he moved a couple feet away from Petit, watching warily as the recruit returned to a seating position.

 

“Where is Lebas?” Porthos questioned, having noted that the man was nowhere in sight.

 

The question seemed to surprise Petit, and he looked around frantically for several moments before he said, “I don’t know.

 

“He’s gone,” Jaccoud breathed out, having been listening to the conversation taking place above him.

 

“You know this how?” Athos asked, new suspicion evident in his tone.

 

“We watched him leave,” Petit interjected. “Right after Riout rode out.”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed in confusion as he looked to his brothers for answers. “Riout is gone?”

 

Porthos nodded as he explained, “He’s gone for help.”

 

Jaccoud let out a short laugh that turned into a painful sounding cough, and it took him several seconds before he’d regained enough breath to speak. “He’s not going for help. He’s the one who did this.”

 

“Riout hired you?” Athos questioned, trying to understand the recruit’s statement.

 

The ill man wearily shook his head. “No, but he did something to the medical supplies. That’s why we’re not getting any better.”

 

Aramis’ expression turned to a mixture of shock and outrage. He’d been diligently doing all he could with his limited supplies, while all along, it was those same items that were causing his patients to grow worse. “What did he do?” he choked out.

 

“Don’t know,” Jaccoud admitted. “But I heard him and Lebas talking. Riout said it wouldn’t be long now.”

 

Aramis rocked back onto his heels as his feelings of helplessness surged forth once more. He was pulled from his daze by Porthos’ strong hand on his, the large man pulling him to his feet and then away from the two traitors. It took him a moment to process that they were back at d’Artagnan’s side, both Athos and Porthos staring at him with concerned looks on their faces. Forcing himself to focus, he scrubbed a hand across his face before stating, “I’m fine.”

 

Neither man appeared convinced by the marksman’s reply, but they had more pressing matters to which to attend. “One of us needs to go for help,” Porthos declared, as the options of waiting for Riout’s reappearance or the men’s miraculous return to health evaporated.

 

Athos was nodding thoughtfully. “Aramis, can they last another day?”

 

The medic was already shaking his head before he began to speak. “Jaccoud is probably right; he’s dying and there’s not much I can do.”

 

Dreading the possibility of restarting their earlier argument, but needing to know, Porthos asked, “The poultice.”

 

“No, I won’t use something that may have been tampered with,” Aramis stated. “For all I know, everything I’ve been doing to this point has simply made things worse.”

 

The medic’s features were twisted into a mask of devastation, prompting Athos to gently knock his shoulder against his friend’s in a show of support. “You couldn’t have known,” he said, hoping his words would provide the medic with some comfort.

 

“I should have noticed…” Aramis began, breaking off when the lump in his throat threatened to choke him.

 

Giving the marksman a moment to compose himself, Athos turned his attention back to Porthos. “You’re alright to go?” The large man nodded confidently, aware that he was being asked whether he believed he could outmaneuver Riout and safely navigate any potential traps the man may have laid for him.

 

“Then, go,” Athos ordered, tiredly looking around their camp. “Aramis and I will secure things here.”

 

Porthos clasped both men’s shoulders for a moment as their gazes met, words unnecessary between them. A moment later, he was gone, striding confidently towards the horses, while Athos prayed he hadn’t just condemned another brother to death.


	18. The Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was mid-morning when Petit broke the eerie silence that had fallen on their camp, his voice hoarse from disuse as he announced, “He’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter. Enjoy this next part!

The moon had been relatively bright that night, but it didn’t matter much now, as the evening was rapidly waning and a new day was about to take its place. As the world progressively grew lighter around him, Riout easily navigated his route. He’d been relatively certain that he’d be able to leave without arousing any further suspicion, but having actually done it had elevated his spirits, leaving him feeling both euphoric and confident after his recent success. By the time the Musketeers realized that he wasn’t coming back, the ailing men would be dead.

 

Knowing the marksman, he figured that Aramis would carry the burden of his failure badly, and might even decide to leave the regiment altogether, especially once Athos unleashed his rage. That the older man had become so attached to d’Artagnan had been a surprising discovery, but one that had offered an unexpected side benefit when Riout realized the devastation the Gascon’s death would bring. As he rode, he envisioned Aramis blaming himself for being unable to heal the young man; Athos angry at the medic’s apparent ineptitude and poor decisions; and Porthos stuck firmly in the middle between his two friends, while also dealing with his own grief.

 

The Inseparables had often seemed unbeatable, but he was certain that he’d managed to destroy the strong bonds between them. Recognition of the seemingly impossible feat that he’d nonetheless accomplished brought a wide grin to Riout’s face as he savoured the misery he’d managed to create. His benefactor would be pleased and reward him accordingly.

 

His thoughts turned toward Paris; he’d lost many a night’s sleep yearning for his home. Although Treville had kept his secret – and he still didn’t understand why the Captain had chosen to do so – there was no way he could show his face in the beautiful city. Instead, he’d been relegated to eking out a living however he’d been able, until his benefactor had saved him. Still, even the man’s power hadn’t been enough to allow him to return home, and the bitter regret of that fact soured his stomach.

 

Now, with his outstanding success, he was certain that his benefactor would protect him from Treville’s wrath. He would at last be able to establish himself properly and hold his head high, for anyone opposing his patron did so at their own peril. The thought warmed him and lulled him into a false sense of security that would have been his downfall, except for his finely-honed instincts. It was that part of his nature that now screamed at him that he was no longer alone, and he slowed his horse’s pace, shifting from a canter to a walk to allow his hearing to offer him some clue as to his unseen companion’s identity.

 

Within seconds he’d managed to discern the sound of hoofbeats, and he noted that whoever was following him was doing little to hide their presence. Riout couldn’t help but smile at the person’s confidence, certain that it would lead the individual to their downfall. Another half-minute passed, and he brought his mount to a halt, turning it in place so he could face the approaching rider.

 

Seconds later a man’s form appeared, and Riout drew his pistol, allowing the barrel to rest on top of his left hand, which laid on the pommel of his saddle. His countenance was nonchalant, and he hoped that it would buy him precious moments in the impending confrontation as the other man considered whether or not Riout posed a threat. He offered a disarming smile as the newcomer came to a stop in front of him, ignoring the blatant hostility that emanated from the man.

 

“I thought you were riding to get help?” the man queried, his tone tinged with a heavy undercurrent of suspicion.

 

Tilting his head to one side, Riout offered a slight nod of agreement. “And I thought you were back at the camp, keeping an eye on things.”

 

The new arrival frowned, but didn’t back down as he said, “Seems to me that this is the road to Paris.”

 

As if considering the other man’s words, Riout pursed his lips for a moment before replying, “There are often many roads to the same destination. Who’s to say that this one won’t take me to where I want to go.”

 

The other man’s expression shifted to irritation as he countered, “Ah, but I know what you’ve done, and that’s how I also know that you have no intention of seeking help for the others.” Pausing for a moment to consider, he asked, “Were you even planning on going back?”

 

Riout simply smiled chillingly, sending a shiver up the other man’s spine. “Is that why you’re here?” The newcomer rolled his eyes at the absurd question, while Riout nodded thoughtfully. “This isn’t how I’d planned things,” he remarked, letting his gaze momentarily drift to the ground between them. As he’d hoped, the other rider followed his gaze, allowing him a moment of distraction in which he aimed his pistol and fired. As the man toppled from his horse, Riout’s face split into a grin. “Good thing I’m adaptable.”

 

Holstering his weapon, he nudged his horse into motion, turning sharply back in the direction he’d been travelling as he left the other man behind. Privately, he applauded himself on once more triumphing over the others. 

* * *

“Are you sure we shouldn’t do more?” Aramis asked, glancing momentarily at Petit, who still sat at Jaccoud’s side.

 

Athos pressed his fingers into his burning eyes, which were the result of too little sleep and far too much worry. Letting his hand drop, he met his friend’s gaze evenly as he said, “We’ve taken all his weapons and hobbled him by taking his boots – do you really feel he’s still a threat?”

 

The marksman looked uneasy as he offered, “He may try to run.” The words were spoken with a hint of a question, and the older man shook his head.

 

“We’re miles away from…” Athos paused for a moment, searching for the right word. “Everything. He has no supplies, no weapons, and we would see him if he tried to get to his horse. Besides, we have more pressing issues to deal with.” His eyes shifted meaningfully to d’Artagnan who’d begun to mumble in his fever-fueled delirium. “Is there nothing more to be done?”

 

So much had happened in such a short amount of time – Jaccoud and Petit’s confessions, Lebas’ disappearance, Riout’s and Porthos’ departures, but the most worrisome of all was d’Artagnan’s turn for the worse. When Aramis had last checked, the Gascon had been weak but still somewhat aware, despite the infection coursing through his veins. Now, they’d been unable to wake him and he seemed caught up in a world of his mind’s creation.

 

When Aramis had learned of Jaccoud’s treachery, he’d been prepared to immediately return to d’Artagnan’s side and apply the poultice to his wound. It was only the revelation of Riout’s meddling with his supplies that had stopped him, and he still blamed himself for not noticing right away that his ministrations were making his patients sicker instead of healing them. Where the Gascon’s fate had earlier been unknown, Aramis was now certain that their friend would not survive without medical intervention. Worst of all was that he didn’t think d’Artagnan would last long enough for Porthos to reach someplace where he could find a physician.

 

Scrubbing his hand through his tangled curls in a classic show of his frustration, he made a decision. “I’m going to apply the poultice.”

 

Athos’ expression was stricken, and he was quick to put his fears into words. “What of Riout’s tampering?”

 

Pressing his lips together into a thin line for a moment, the medic replied, “It doesn’t matter; this is his only chance.” The older man’s face fell at Aramis’ brutal honesty, but this was not the time to try and spare Athos’ feelings. “Look,” the medic began, “without something to counteract this infection, I know that d’Artagnan will not survive. To not use the poultice on the off chance that it makes things worse is foolish and irrelevant. What’s important now is that there’s a chance it will keep the infection contained long enough for help to arrive.” Athos was quiet and his eyes were prematurely filled with grief, prompting Aramis to reach out to his friend and grip his forearm. “We have nothing to lose,” he finished gently.

 

“And everything to gain,” the older man mumbled, his eyes momentarily downcast as he was forced to accept the dire reality of d’Artagnan’s condition.

 

Giving his friend’s arm a last reassuring squeeze, Aramis nodded before turning retrieve the poultice from where he’d left it. Bringing it to the Gascon’s side, he cast his mind back, examining every little detail to try and remember if there had been anything off about the herbs he’d used. In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the color and texture of each plant he’d added, recalling the smells of the more aromatic ones, but could not recall anything seeming amiss.

 

Sighing heavily, he looked down at their friend’s now exposed flank, the wound looking red and angry as it wept a thick, yellow fluid mixed with streaks of red. Unless he could get the infection under control, Aramis knew the young man’s life was measured in hours. Seeking out Athos’ gaze, he waited until the older man gave his blessing, giving a single nod of his head to say go ahead. Wiping a clean cloth along the length of the wound, the medic then placed the poultice across the cut, pressing it into place gently with his fingers.

 

Leaning back wearily on his haunches, he met Athos’ gaze once more, as the older man asked, “Now what?”

 

As much as Aramis wanted to offer words of reassurance, he was tired in both body and spirit, so he simply offered a slight shrug as he replied, “Pray that this works.” 

* * *

As night gave way to a new day, the sun’s rays highlighted how ill the wounded men looked. Aramis finished his check of Jaccoud’s wound, lifting his eyes momentarily to Petit’s as he shook his head – the man was dying and it was a miracle he’d lived long enough to see another sunrise. Seeing the look of devastation on Petit’s face released a momentary flash of sympathy in the medic’s chest, until he pushed to his feet, returning to his own sick comrade’s side.

 

d’Artagnan was deathly ill and Aramis was certain the Grim Reaper was most likely courting the young man in his fevered dreams. Once he’d applied the poultice and covered the Gascon with a blanket, he’d prayed, just as he’d suggested to Athos. Within a minute, the older man’s soft words joined his own, as the former noble also took to his knees, clearly desperate enough to call upon a deity that he’d claimed he’d forsaken. It was a testament to how afraid Athos was that he would take up prayer as a last hope for their friend’s salvation.

 

When their lips were cracked and their mouths dry, and there were no more words to say, they’d fallen into a heavy silence, their awareness centred solely on d’Artagnan’s body. Aramis would occasionally try to trickle some water between the young man’s parted lips, but Athos simply sat, holding one of the Gascon’s limp hands in his and refusing to let go. The medic noted the older man’s pale skin and had tried to get his friend to rest, but Athos rejected any attempts to move him from his protégé’s side. Aramis understood and shared his fears, certain that if he closed his eyes, it would be at that moment that the Gascon would leave his earthly form behind.

 

It was mid-morning when Petit broke the eerie silence that had fallen on their camp, his voice hoarse from disuse as he announced, “He’s gone.”

 

Aramis merely nodded, glancing at the older man who gave no indication he’d even heard the recruit. Tiredly, he turned towards Petit. “We’ll need to dispose of his body.” The recruit flinched at his statement, but not once had it crossed the medic’s mind that they would bring Jaccoud back to Paris with them.

 

Standing from his position at the dead man’s side, Petit said, “I’ll bury him.” As he turned away from the Musketeers to find a spot where he could dig a grave, Aramis shifted, grudgingly telling himself that he should go help.

 

“Don’t bother.” Athos’ words startled him and brought his focus back to the older man, who continued to stare at d’Artagnan’s slack face. “It’s better than he deserves, but your place is here.”

 

Aramis’ gaze drifted to the Gascon’s face, and he nodded slowly, unable to dredge up even the smallest amount of empathy for Petit given what his actions had wrought. Unable to deal with the quiet anymore, he said, “It may already be too late.” It was not what he’d wanted to say, but as the hours progressed without any positive change in their friend’s condition, he felt the need to prepare the older man.

 

“I know,” Athos replied. “But if there’s anyone stubborn enough to survive this, it’s him.” A smile tugged at Aramis’ lips at the affection that colored the older man’s comment about their friend. Athos must have noticed as his mouth quirked into a soft grin a moment later. Shaking his head, he said, “He does have a way of getting to one, doesn’t he?”

 

The medic nodded slowly, a memory of their first meeting darting through his mind. “You only say that because it’s the first time you’ve met anyone who can out-stubborn you.”

 

He was surprised when Athos didn’t disagree, the older man’s expression turning sombre once more as he gripped d’Artagnan’s hand against his chest. “I’m not strong enough for this, you know.”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed as he tried to understand the meaning of his friend’s words. “What do you mean?”

 

“This,” Athos repeated, indicating the Gascon with his chin. “If he…” _Dies_ \- the word mocked Athos and he found he couldn’t say it out loud. Swallowing thickly, he tried again. “If he doesn’t make it, I’m not strong enough to deal with that.”

 

Aramis’ worry for the older man ratcheted and he was quick to try and reassure his friend. “That’s not true, Athos, you have already survived so much.”

 

Meeting his gaze for the first time, the former comte allowed the marksman to see the desolation clouding his eyes. “That’s the point. I’ve already buried one brother, and it nearly ended me. I cannot bear to do so a second time.”

 

As Athos dropped his gaze down to d’Artagnan, Aramis found himself bereft of words, his friend’s statement having pulled all the breath from his chest. He knew that d’Artagnan and Athos shared a special bond, but to have the older man so explicitly explain the effect that the Gascon’s death would have on him was stunning.

 

“Athos, I’m sure that…” the marksman began, needing to convince his friend that they would find a way to survive if the worst came to pass. He was interrupted by Petit, who’d been digging a shallow grave for his friend several meters from the edge of their camp.

 

“Riders approaching,” the recruit yelled.

 

“Damn it, now what?” Aramis exclaimed, already dreading whatever fate had decided to throw at them next.


	19. Silkworm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos aimed an accusatory look at his friends, both men’s faces communicating their contrition at what had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments on the last chapter. Some answers ahead along with more questions. Hope you enjoy!

Petit’s words spurred a rush of adrenaline in both Aramis and Athos’ bodies, and the older man couldn’t help but tense up as the marksman exclaimed, “Damn it, now what?” Though Athos was not normally an anxious person by nature, using his strong sense of control to mold his environment to his will, the past week had virtually stolen the last of his reserves. As a result, he was unable to control the low gasp that escaped him as a sense of dread surged forward to replace the worry that had filled his heart since d’Artagnan had fallen ill.

 

Fortunately, fate seemed to finally be smiling on them, and they were now faced with a small, dour looking man who took the briefest of looks around, before silently descending from the front of his wagon. By the time he’d swiftly made his way towards them, Aramis had recovered from his surprise enough to ask, “Who are you?”

 

The slight newcomer offered the marksman a brief glance as he replied, “The physician, of course.” Circumventing Aramis, the doctor knelt beside d’Artagnan as he unnecessarily stated, “I assume this is my patient.”

 

The Musketeers traded concerned glances and were about to intervene when another horse arrived, this one carrying a concerned Porthos. Slipping from his steed as soon as the animal had stopped, he voiced his question even as he was moving towards them, “Did we make it in time?”

 

At the large man’s arrival, Aramis turned back to his patient and the doctor, joining the latter man to begin offering an account of d’Artagnan’s condition and the treatments he’d used. This left Athos staring at the two men, while Porthos sidled up to the older man’s side, murmuring lowly, “Thank God, I wasn’t sure if we’d be fast enough.”

 

At those words, the physician turned his head for a moment, looking upwards to pin the large Musketeer with an annoyed expression as he said, “The only way we’d have gotten here any sooner was if we’d had wings.”

 

Athos lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Porthos, while the doctor refocused on the Gascon. The large man merely shrugged as he replied, “I may have rushed him a bit.”

 

The casually spoken words made Athos’ lips quirk into a slight smile, recognizing the worry that all of them shared, and which had been guiding their actions for the last few days. The mirth slipped from his face as he returned his gaze to d’Artagnan, hearing the soft tutting of the physician that signaled his displeasure.

 

Pushing himself to his feet, the doctor focused on the two upright men. “I think I can help, but it’s imperative that we get him indoors and into a proper bed.”

 

“We’ll load him into the wagon and break camp immediately,” Athos replied, some of the tightness in his chest easing at the promising news.

 

The physician merely nodded, addressing Aramis once more. “I’ll begin preparing my things. Get him settled as soon as you can and I’ll work on him while we travel.” With that, he turned his back on the Musketeers, striding quickly towards the wagon and his supplies.

 

As the marksman stood, Porthos cast his eyes around the camp, a confused expression on his face. “Where’re the others?”

 

The question had Athos and Aramis searching the area, the latter man cursing softly when he realized they were alone. “He’s gone,” the medic needlessly stated. “We have to go after him.”

 

“No,” Athos replied, his tone steely in his resolve.

 

“Who?” Porthos interjected, having expected to see a camp full of people upon his return.

 

Sighing tiredly, the older man answered, “Petit. He was here a few minutes ago, but apparently used your arrival to flee.”

 

Porthos knew that something must have happened while he was away, but before he could press for details, Aramis said, “It’s a long story.”

 

“It is, indeed, and one that d’Artagnan doesn’t have time for,” Athos concurred. Shifting his gaze to the marksman, he continued, “Nor does he have time for us to search for our errant recruit.”

 

Aramis appeared ready to argue, and Athos held his friend’s gaze, silently pleading with him to place the Gascon’s welfare above the missing man. “Fine,” the medic finally acquiesced.

 

Receiving the marksman’s agreement, the three moved quickly into action, packing their things and settling d’Artagnan onto a pallet of blankets and straw in the back of the wagon. Within thirty minutes, they were on their way, leaving Athos to explain to Porthos everything that had transpired since he’d left, while Aramis and the physician did their best to prolong their friend’s life. 

* * *

Athos sat back in his chair, the hard wooden back pressing uncomfortably into his spine. Given how long he’d been occupying the seat, he was certain that there would be permanent marks on his body from the rigid frame. Savouring a sip of his wine, his eyes drifted to the window where the first rays of sunlight were announcing the arrival of another new day. Closing his eyes, he reflected on how important time had become over the past week.

 

Two days. That was how long it had taken for them to get back to Paris where d’Artagnan had immediately been ensconced in the infirmary. The physician that Porthos had found had argued vehemently about their destination, wanting to return to his hometown. He had finally acquiesced once he’d admitted that the Gascon’s convalescence would be a long and painful one, assuming he survived.

 

Four days. d’Artagnan’s body had been weak and ravaged by infection. Despite the doctor’s efforts, the man had been unable to offer them a positive prognosis for four long days, each hour crawling by as Athos and the others had remained by the Gascon’s bedside. None of them had been willing to leave, fearing that each minute might be d’Artagnan’s last. Instead, they prayed and pleaded with their young friend not to leave them, until it seemed that their words had finally convinced the Gascon to stay.

 

Six days. Once the doctor had announced that the young man would live, his friends had been desperate for him to wake. It was incredible how badly they’d needed to see his dark, brown eyes, and their prayers had somehow turned from asking God to spare him, to asking for their friend to wake. Whether d’Artagnan had been unwilling, or simply unable, was anyone’s guess, but it hadn’t been until late on the sixth day when their prayers had been answered, and the Gascon had blearily opened his eyes. The event was anticlimactic as he’d fallen asleep almost immediately afterwards, not even aware of his location or of the men who sat at his side and grinned widely at his return.

 

Nine days. That was the amount of time that was apparently needed for a body ravaged by infection to regain even the smallest amount of strength. Following d’Artagnan’s return to wakefulness, the three friends had moved the young man to Athos’ apartments, the older man insisting that the Gascon still couldn’t be left alone. While Aramis and Porthos agreed with the sentiment, both men also understood the older man’s need to have d’Artagnan close. As a result, they brought food and drink each morning, spending the day together, before leaving each night to sleep in their own beds.

 

Athos was the only constant, refusing to leave, despite the fact that the Gascon was still asleep more than he was awake. Each morning, he would ply the young man with the broth that Porthos brought, encouraging him to have a few bites of bread so he might have something substantial in his stomach to fuel his healing body. It was a difficult balance, Athos had learned early on. d’Artagnan was not only weak, but his stomach was often unsettled by the thought of food, and trying to eat too much would only cause a swift and painful rejection that brought tears to the Gascon’s eyes.

 

Instead of large portions, Aramis had prescribed smaller, more frequent meals, which seemed to be received better and caused far less discomfort. Still, Athos worried about how slight and frail their friend appeared, given the amount of weight he’d lost while battling the infection.

 

Following breakfast, Athos would join Porthos at the table to eat his meal, while Aramis checked d’Artagnan’s wound. Both he and Porthos had privately remarked on the medic’s almost compulsive need to ensure that everything was healing well. Although Athos would like to say that he felt no such desire, the truth was that he was grateful for Aramis’ thoroughness.

 

Eleven days. None of them were good patients, but Athos was certain that the medic found d’Artagnan to be especially challenging. Once the Gascon had begun to feel better and regain some of his mobility, it became almost impossible to keep him inside so he could rest. He would cajole, complain and simply whine until one of the men allowed him outside, where he would contentedly soak in the sun’s rays. Privately, Athos was happy to see the return of his protégé’s stubbornness, since it signaled that they wouldn’t be allowed to mother-hen him for much longer. As he’d improved, d’Artagnan had progressed from simply sitting outside to wandering the streets, as he sought some way of relieving his boredom.

 

Twelve days. Athos was certain that today would be _the_ day. Opening his eyes, his gaze landed on his friend’s sleeping form. _Sleeping_ , not unconscious, he reminded himself. Sometimes, the memory of d’Artagnan’s first days in Paris reasserted themselves, and in was in those moments that Athos had to forcibly remind himself of all the progress they’d made since then. The Gascon’s time outside had done more than recharge his soul; it had given the young man back a more healthy color, and made him look much less like the seriously ill man they’d arrived with nearly two weeks prior.

 

He noted the first signs that d’Artagnan was waking, and took a last drink from his cup before setting it aside. The Gascon would be displeased if he knew that his friend had sat watching him for most of the night, but Athos was certain that today would be the day when his protégé would insist on returning to his own room. The older man had discussed it with Aramis the other day, and the medic had agreed that d’Artagnan was ready, but they’d chosen to wait until the Gascon informed them of his decision to go.

 

Athos watched as the young man drew a long, lazy breath, and he noted that there was barely any hint of pain on his friend’s face from the broken rib that Aramis had stated was healing well. Idly, he brought a hand up to his upper arm, rubbing the reddened skin that had healed and would remain a reminder of everything that had transpired during the ill-fated training mission. As he dropped his hand back to his lap, he found himself the focus of two dark, inquiring orbs, framed above lips that were quirked into a smile.

 

Pushing himself carefully up to a seated position, d’Artagnan said, “I hope you weren’t watching me sleep.”

 

Athos’ expression shifted into a smile of his own as he replied, “Of course not. Do you honestly believe I have nothing better to do with my time?”

 

The question made the Gascon’s grin widen, since they both knew the answer to Athos’ question, even though neither of them would state it out loud. Looking around the empty room, he asked, “Porthos and Aramis not here yet?”

 

Rising stiffly from his seat, Athos answered, “I’m certain they’ll be here soon.” Turning his back on the younger man and moving to the window he said, “Why don’t you freshen up while we wait.”

 

Wordlessly, d’Artagnan got out of bed, taking care of his morning ablutions while the older man watched the city coming to life outside. The Gascon was just pulling on his boots when their friends entered, bearing with them an assortment of breakfast items and a small package wrapped in brown paper.

 

As they sat down at Athos’ table, d’Artagnan’s attention was immediately drawn to the parcel, which Porthos had placed next to his plate. “What’s that?” the Gascon indicated towards the item with his chin, his hands busy ripping apart a piece of soft bread.

 

Porthos and Aramis smiled at the inquisitive nature of their friend. Trading a quick look with Aramis, the large man nudged the package across the table to Athos. The older man glanced towards the item, before allowing his eyes to dart quickly to d’Artagnan. Understanding the unspoken question, Porthos ordered, “Open it already.”

 

Athos cast a concerned look in the Gascon’s direction, but acquiesced at the expectant expressions worn by his three friends. Untying the twine that kept the paper in place, he unfolded the edges to reveal a bundle of fabric in hues of deep green and gold. Letting his fingers rest on it, he gave Porthos and Aramis a slightly surprised expression at what he felt. “It’s exquisite, but I can’t accept.”

 

The marksman laughed easily, while Porthos merely rolled his eyes. “Put it on,” the large man encouraged. They watched as Athos unfolded the length of fabric, tentatively lifting it and winding it around his neck. “Suits you,” Porthos stated with a wide smile on his face.

 

Fingering it with one hand, Athos tried to once more reject the gift. “But the cost…”

 

“The silkworm is a remarkable creature and I assure you that many gave their lives so you could have such a fine scarf.” Aramis interjected. “Surely, you wouldn’t make light of their sacrifice and refuse it?” the marksman concluded, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

 

Seeing the expressions on his friends’ faces, Athos knew that they would never allow him to refuse, so he merely smiled nodded as he said, “Thank you. I’m certain I’ve never owned anything finer.” His friends new his history and recognized the words as likely being untrue, but the sentiment was sincere so they allowed the lie to pass.

 

“Why…” d’Artagnan began, having sat in silence as the older man had received his gift. “I don’t understand.”

 

The men’s expressions faltered at the Gascon’s discomfort. Trading looks with the others, Aramis replied, “It’s Athos’ birthday.”

 

“Your birthday,” d’Artagnan breathed out as he turned towards his mentor, his eyes clouded with a mix of embarrassment and regret. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he said hurriedly, his mind racing with the implications that he hadn’t known his best friend’s birthday.

 

“It’s of no consequence,” Athos replied, silently berating his friends for getting him a gift.

 

“Of course, it is,” d’Artagnan countered, pushing his chair back so suddenly that it momentarily rocked on two legs before settling again. “I didn’t know,” he repeated, his eyes now wide with anxiety.

 

Before anything more could be said, the Gascon turned abruptly from the table, snagging his doublet on his way towards the door. “d’Artagnan,” Porthos called, he and the others also getting up, but the young man resolutely ignored them as he passed through the door and slammed it behind him.

 

Athos aimed an accusatory look at his friends, both men’s faces communicating their contrition at what had happened. “Oh, Athos,” Aramis said, sadly shaking his head. Wordlessly, the older man unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, tossing it carelessly onto the table. Grabbing his doublet, weapons and hat, he made for the door, Aramis and Porthos trailing behind him.


	20. Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving his head to one side to again try and see around the large man, Aramis’ eyes widened in recognition at the man that stepped out of the alleyway and past the end of the carriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read and comment.
> 
> Due to birthday celebrations in my family this week, the next chapter will be posted next Sunday instead of Wednesday. Sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoy this next part!

They’d walked desperately up and down the Parisian streets, but d’Artagnan seemed to have disappeared. After several hours, Aramis placed a hand on Athos’ arm, tugging the older man to a stop. “Athos, this isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said.

 

Next to him, Porthos nodded in agreement. “Aramis is right; if the boy don’t want to be found, he won’t be.”

 

Athos knew his friends were correct, but that knowledge didn’t help slow the fluttering of his heart as the guilt of what had happened pushed him onwards. He began to turn away from his friends, only to have the marksman’s grip on his arm stop him once more.

 

“Let’s at least take a short rest to eat. None of us finished our breakfast, and I, for one, am famished,” the marksman implored.

 

Again, supporting his friend’s suggestion, Porthos declared, “I could eat.” The familiar phrase brought a slight quirk to Athos’ lips and he gave a reluctant nod, knowing he wouldn’t win this argument.

 

It turned out that Aramis had brought them to a halt a few steps away from the entrance to a tavern, and he steered the older man inside, Porthos bringing up the rear. After settling themselves at a table near the back, they ordered servings of stew and bread, along with a bottle of wine, which Athos eyed hungrily. For once, neither of his friends said anything about his need for drink. Instead, Porthos pulled the cork and poured a healthy measure for each of them, Athos’ cup slightly fuller than his friends’.

 

The wine went down easily and he emptied his glass in one go. Wordlessly, Porthos refilled it while Aramis motioned to the barmaid for a second bottle. When Athos didn’t immediately drain his cup, the large man leaned back slightly in his chair as he said, “We’re sorry about this morning.” The older man stared into his glass, as though mesmerized by the dark liquid within. “We ‘ad no idea that he didn’t know about your birthday.”

 

Aramis nodded eagerly as he added, “He’s been with us for over a year. We just assumed that he had a gift ready for you and would give it to you later.”

 

Athos took several long seconds to absorb his friends’ words before giving a sad shake of his head and reminding them, “No, d’Artagnan was still a newcomer in our midst when we celebrated together last year. There would be no way for him to know.”

 

“You didn’t tell him?” Aramis ventured, receiving another slow headshake from the older man.

 

“No wonder he reacted the way he did,” Porthos murmured, causing Athos to flinch.

 

“Athos, you don’t believe this to be your fault, do you?” Aramis asked, having noted the older man’s reaction to Porthos’ comment.

 

Lifting sorrowful eyes to his friends, Athos said, “Friends eat together, celebrate together, laugh and shed tears together. Isn’t that supposed to be the way of things?”

 

“I suppose,” the marksman slowly agreed.

 

“Yet, I didn’t think to share my birthday with a man I refer to as _brother_. What kind of friend does that make me?” Athos asked, his eyes pleading with the other men for an answer that would relieve him of his guilt.

 

“I think d’Artagnan’s more embarrassed than mad,” Porthos countered, offering an alternative explanation that would release Athos from blame. “We shoulda’ asked him if he wanted to split the cost of the scarf.”

 

That piqued the older man’s interest and he asked, “Why didn’t you?”

 

Sheepishly, Aramis admitted, “We thought the amount might be too great for him to afford.”

 

The irony of the situation dawning on him, Porthos added, “We didn’t want him to feel embarrassed if he didn’t have enough coin to cover his part.”

 

Sighing deeply, Athos said, “It seems there is more than enough blame for all three of us.”

 

Their conversation came to an end then, and when their meals arrived, they ate in silence, only Aramis’ glare forcing them to continue eating until the marksman was satisfied. Once they’d paid for their food and drink, they found themselves standing on the street outside the tavern, looking first one way and then the other as they considered which way to go.

 

“We should split up,” Athos stated. Seeing the dubious expressions on his friends’ faces, he went on. “We’ll continue searching until the bells ring for the dinner hour. Return to my apartments then if you haven’t found him; or better yet, bring him with you if you have.” Porthos and Aramis exchanged looks, silently sharing their views on Athos’ plan before giving the older man a nod of agreement.

 

“Alright,” Porthos said. “We’ll meet back at your rooms.”

 

As he and Aramis moved off in different direction, Athos continued standing in place, wondering where he should look next. His gaze shifted right as he caught the tip of the spires of Notre Dame from the corner of his eye. Turning, he stared at the top of the church, a forgotten memory tugging at his mind. Moments later, he could hear d’Artagnan’s words repeating in his head. _“I like to go there sometimes to pray for my mother and father.”_

 

Could it be that simple? With renewed energy, Athos set off, determined to find their errant friend before the next chiming of the church’s bells.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos had turned left down the street that ran in front of the tavern where they’d eaten. After several minutes’ walk, the street would open onto a square, at which point they’d go their separate ways, each one hoping to locate their missing friend.

 

“Do you think he’ll forgive us?” Porthos asked as they walked.

 

“Athos or d’Artagnan?” Aramis replied, his eyes continually scanning the people around them.

 

“Either, both,” the larger man answered, still uncertain about whether or not they’d received Athos’ forgiveness at the tavern.

 

Sighing, the marksman said, “Athos isn’t mad at us; he’s simply unhappy with the situation. I’m relatively certain that once d’Artagnan is found, everything will fall back into place between us.”

 

Considering his friend’s words, Porthos nodded idly, his gaze sweeping the faces of those around him just as the marksman’s was. They walked in silence for nearly a minute before the street emptied into a wide square.

 

“I’ll take the Rue Saint…” Aramis began, only to be interrupted by Porthos bodily moving him to the left, where their bodies pressed against the front of a building. “What the devil…” the marksman began, on to be cut off once more as his friend shushed him. Rolling his eyes, Aramis complied, craning his neck around Porthos’ broad shoulders to see what had gotten his friend so excited and concerned.

 

Following the direction of the larger man’s gaze, Aramis spotted the back wheels of an ornate carriage. Something about the color and design tugged at his brain, suggesting that he’d seen that particular conveyance before, but it seemed out of place stopped in an alley. “Whose…” Porthos shoulder unexpectedly knocked against his chest, pushing the air from Aramis’ lungs and stopping him from finishing his question.

 

Irritated, the marksman pushed against his friend’s back, allowing himself some room to take a much-needed deep breath. With his lungs refilled, he tried again. “Whose carriage is that?”

 

“Don’t you recognize it?” Porthos replied, his eyes still firmly pinned to the vehicle. Despite the fact that Aramis couldn’t see his friend’s face, the smirk in his tone came across clearly.

 

Huffing at the large man’s question, Aramis said, “Maybe if you’d let me move away from this wall, and I could get a better look…”

 

“Shh,” Porthos quieted him again, and the marksman once more found himself pressed against the unyielding wall at his back.

 

Moving his head to one side to again try and see around the large man, Aramis’s eyes widened in recognition at the man that stepped out of the alleyway and past the end of the carriage. Pausing as he entered the square, the man glanced to his left and right, causing Porthos to press himself more firmly into the marksman at his back. Satisfied that there was no one of concern around, the man left the alley behind, striding confidently across the square before disappearing down one of the connecting streets.

 

Not even thinking to push Porthos aside, Aramis asked with a note of wonder in his voice, “Was that Riout?”

 

Nodding, the large man shifted and faced his friend, a dangerous glint in his eyes as replied, “That it was. Guess he got lost when he rode out to get help.” His comment dripped with sarcasm, and Aramis knew that it was a reflection of his own anger with the former Musketeer who’d not only abandoned them, but had actively worked against them. “We should go after him,” the marksman declared, attempting to go around the broad form of his friend, only to be stopped by Porthos’ hand on his chest.

 

“We’ve got bigger concerns right now,” the larger man offered in explanation.

 

Not understanding, Aramis again tried to escape his friend’s hold. “Are you saying that you don’t want to get your hands on the man who killed Jaccoud? Who nearly killed d’Artagnan?” The words hissed and laced with disdain as the marksman channeled all of the previous weeks’ frustration into his question.

 

Shaking his head, Porthos responded, “It’s not that, ‘Mis. Did you really not recognize that carriage?” The large man’s question caused Aramis to pause, and he turned inward as he once more tried to dredge up the nagging feeling of familiarity associated with the coach.

 

Recognizing the look of confusion on his friend’s face, Porthos offered the answer that eluded the marksman. “It’s the Cardinal’s.”

 

The statement released a flood of memories in Aramis’ brain as he vividly recalled the last time he’d seen the ostentatious vehicle. “Riout was meeting with the Cardinal,” the marksman murmured.

 

“He’s their mysterious benefactor,” Porthos stated in support of his friend’s words.

 

“We need to go after him,” Aramis declared, still feeling the bitterness of Riout’s escape from justice.

 

Again, Porthos shook his head as he said, “No, we need to tell Treville.” He held a hand up to forestall the marksman’s protests. “Richelieu’s involvement changes things, and the Captain needs to know.”

 

Aramis’ eyes drifted briefly to the point where Riout had disappeared from sight before offering a reluctant nod. “You’re right, of course.”

 

Giving the marksman’s shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze, Porthos then led the way back to the garrison, intentionally skirting the street that joined the alley’s opposite end. Although the carriage had left immediately upon Riout’s departure, Richelieu was notoriously paranoid, and seeing the Musketeers so soon after his meeting with the traitor might arouse suspicion. Despite their somewhat circuitous route, they were soon walking through the garrison’s gates and climbing the stairs to Treville’s office.

 

Porthos knocked heavily on the door and they were rewarded a moment later with an invitation to enter. Following the larger man inside, the two stopped before the Captain’s desk, neither of them sure who should begin speaking. Leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers, Treville said, “Gentlemen.”

 

Each man ducked his head as dual intonations of “Sir” left their mouths. Still, nothing further was forthcoming, causing the Captain to peer more closely at the Musketeers. They’d removed their hats upon entering and he could see the dampness of Aramis’ curls where they pressed close to his brow. Lower, the marksman atypically played with his hat, twisting and turning the brim first one way and then the other. Porthos’ face glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, and his chest rose and fell rapidly after what must have been a fast pace. Something was bothering his men, and he wanted to know what.

 

“What brings you here?” the Captain asked, encouraging his visitors to speak.

 

Inhaling deeply, Porthos began, “We spotted Riout.”

 

The words had barely left the larger man’s mouth before Aramis was rushing to add, “He was meeting with the Cardinal.”

 

Treville’s eyes narrowed as he considered the implication of what he was hearing. “Have you told anyone else of this?” he asked.

 

“No,” Aramis replied. “Shall we accompany you to go speak with Richelieu?”

 

The Captain offered a short shake of his head, already considering strategies and discarding one after another as none of the ideas in his head provided him with a desirable outcome. “Do you want to wait until Athos is back?” Aramis asked, still firmly entrenched in the belief that they needed to confront the holy man.

 

“No,” Treville responded. Leaning forward, with his elbows on his desk, he clarified, “You actually saw Richelieu speaking with Riout?”

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged hurried looks before returning their attention to their commanding officer. “No,” the larger man slowly said. “From where we were standing, we could only see the back of his carriage.”

 

“So you don’t actually know who was inside?” The Captain pressed, needing to be clear on the details of what the men had witnessed.

 

Aramis was shaking his head, but still prepared to argue their position. “No, but you know he wouldn’t allow anyone else to ride in it.”

 

Resuming his previous position, Treville let out a sigh. “We can’t confront Richelieu with nothing more than circumstantial evidence.”

 

Eyes darkening, Porthos countered, “But Riout’s in Paris and d’Artagnan could be in danger.”

 

His expression softening, Treville said, “That may be true, but we need ironclad proof of the Cardinal’s involvement. Without it, we’ll simply offer him a warning to be more careful, while Riout disappears again until things settle down. Is that what you want?” From the looks on the Musketeers’ faces, it was clear that was the last thing they wanted to happen; however, that didn’t mean they were willing to let the matter drop.

 

Straightening stiffly, Porthos said, “Fine, but we’ll need to warn Athos and d’Artagnan of the danger.”

 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Treville stated.

 

“But they should know, so they can protect themselves,” Aramis countered.

 

Letting his gaze settle on the marksman, the Captain asked, “Do you honestly believe that Athos will be able to stop himself from confronting the Cardinal if he’s given reason to suspect his involvement?” Both men recognized the truth of the officer’s words, but the idea of keeping a secret from their friends rankled them.

 

“Look,” Treville began, adopting a conciliatory tone. “I’m investigating and will continue to investigate, but for now, it’s best if nothing more is said about what you saw. I need your word that you won’t say anything about this to either Athos or d’Artagnan.” Several long seconds passed before he received a pair of reluctant nods from the men. “Good,” he remarked. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have any information that can be acted upon.”

 

Sensing the unspoken dismissal, Aramis and Porthos headed for the door, replacing their hats as they walked. It wasn’t until they were several feet away from Treville’s office that they stopped, Porthos stating lowly, “Things always turn out badly when we keep secrets.” Heartily agreeing, Aramis simply nodded as they made their way down the stairs, crossing the sparsely populated courtyard to exit the garrison’s gates.


	21. Brother's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaking his head in mock exasperation, Athos finished, “There’s no dearer gift than a brother’s touch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient as you waited for this next chapter. Birthday celebrations were wonderful and I'd send you all a piece of cake if I could. Hope you enjoy this next part!

_“It’s of no consequence.”_ Athos’ words repeated themselves as if on an endless loop in his brain. Squeezing his eyes shut, d’Artagnan willed the statement away, feeling the familiar flush of his burning face as his mind conjured his friend’s dismissal once more.

 

He’d been horrified to realize that he’d somehow missed the fact that it was his friend’s birthday. His _best_ friend, his inner voice relentlessly corrected, causing him to clench his eyes even more tightly. His hands unconsciously mimicked his eyes as they formed fists, squeezing hard enough that he could feel his nails digging into his flesh. The pain felt good and he relished the feeling, which offered a welcome relief to the emotions that had been ceaselessly dogging him since he’d stalked out of Athos’ room. Shame, regret, loss; the cruel emotions battled for dominance as they swirled endlessly through his chest, making him feel as though he might fly apart at any moment.

 

Taking a slow, shuddering breath, he opened his eyes, letting his gaze fall on his fisted hands. With effort, he forced his fingers open, idly noting the crescent shapes left on his palms from his nails. He deserved the pain, whether physical or emotional, because he hadn’t known about Athos’ birthday. It was the same message that had been repeating in his head since he’d made his hasty retreat.

 

Athos had been polite and kind, indicating that it didn’t matter to him that his protégé didn’t know about his birthday. Aramis and Porthos, too, had seemed indifferent to d’Artagnan’s lack of knowledge, and he felt guilt flare hotly in his chest as he tried to comprehend the reasons for their reactions. Athos was the easiest one to understand. He’d been trained as a Comte, learning from a young age to harness his emotions and school his features, no matter the situation that might present itself.

 

Given his history as a noble, d’Artagnan would have expected nothing other than the older man’s easy dismissal, which he was certain hid a deep disappointment beneath the practiced veneer of diplomat. It was one of Athos’ greatest gifts, and one that he knew Treville valued as well, often asking the older man to stand in his place when he was busy with other matters. That talent had allowed Athos to hide his true feelings at d’Artagnan’s oversight, but the Gascon could not do the same.

 

As for Aramis and Porthos, d’Artagnan recognized that his relationship with them was not as strong as the bond he shared with Athos. Shaking his head, he silently corrected himself – the bond he _had_ shared with Athos. Missing the older man’s birthday was more than sufficient reason to terminate a friendship, he thought bitterly. Still, he’d always been friendly with Aramis and Porthos, and he’d been a part of both men’s birthday celebrations. At the time, he’d relished in the warmth that came from being included. That warmth was now sadly lacking, and he shivered involuntarily at the block of ice that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest.

 

He could think of no reason that Aramis and Porthos would withhold their knowledge of Athos’ birthday from him. Nor could he comprehend why they hadn’t asked him to contribute to the older man’s gift. The scarf they’d selected had been exquisite, and even from his spot at the table, he could tell that it was smooth and soft to the touch, the silky fabric rippling in delicate waves as it was handled. And then it struck him - the cost of the scarf would have been beyond his means. Why else would Athos have protested against such a fine gift?

 

He groaned softly as he let his head dip to his chest, the pain of the morning’s events surging forth once more. Lifting his face long seconds later, he allowed his head to tip back against the warm stone at his back. Given the sun’s position, it was late afternoon. In his misery, he’d lost himself to his thoughts for nearly the entire day. The realization drew another soft moan from him as he wondered how he could ever explain his long absence to his friends.

 

Then, another thought struck him – would they even care? Of course, they would, the rational part of his brain stated. But, I didn’t know about Athos’ birthday, and then I stalked out like some young child throwing a tantrum, another part of his mind countered. “Stop,” he gasped out, unaware that he’d spoken aloud.

 

“If that’s what you want,” another voice said, causing him to startle badly as his head swiveled toward the source of the sound. “But I’d like to talk first,” Athos continued, his hand indicating the spot next to the Gascon. “If you’ll let me?” d’Artagnan found himself nodding even as he attempted to fathom what the older man was doing there. 

* * *

Athos had been certain he’d find their missing friend at Notre Dame. His hurried steps soon had him crossing into the large cathedral where he quickly genuflected, crossing himself hastily before continuing further inside. Walking along the length of the pews, his eyes roved constantly in search of the Gascon, but to no avail. His gaze drifted next to the confessionals, but even he could not bring himself to intrude upon their sanctity, so he waited instead, hovering awkwardly among the few faithful who occupied the church.

 

Meandering towards a small alcove, he was stopped by one of the church’s custodians, the man diligently sweeping the stone floors. “Not here to pray?” the caretaker asked casually, propping his hands on the handle of his broom.

 

Feeling even more self-conscious than before, Athos replied, “I was looking for a friend. I thought maybe…” he trailed off as his gaze shifted towards the confessionals.

 

“There’s no one in there now,” the other man said. “You sure your friend is supposed to be here?”

 

Athos’ uncertainty showed in his expression even before he’d answered. “No, I’m not certain at all.”

 

“Maybe in the garden?” the man suggested, indicating over his shoulder towards the back of the church with one hand.

 

Athos hesitated, beginning to believe that he’d been completely wrong about d’Artagnan’s destination. The man before him chuckled, bringing the Musketeer’s attention back. “I hope your friend’s not the fool up on the roof.”

 

“What?” the former comte queried, the odd statement catching him off guard.

 

“Across the street,” the man replied. “Doesn’t happen often, but there’s the odd one that ends up there. Saw one pacing up there earlier when I was cleanin’ the front windows.”

 

Athos nearly dismissed the idea that it might be d’Artagnan who the custodian had seen, but then he was reminded that the Gascon had been introduced to Paris’ rooftops by Porthos a few months prior. Abruptly, he turned on his heel, determined to check and confirm for himself that the young man hadn’t gone upwards. He’d only taken three steps when he realized that he had no idea how to get to the roof. Turning back towards the caretaker, he noted the amused expression on the man’s face. “Go around to the back. There’s a ladder there that’ll get you to the roof,” the man instructed.

 

Nodding, Athos murmured a quick word of thanks before making his way outside. Stopping just outside the doors, he looked up at the building across the street. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see anyone, and he wondered if that was because the person was gone or if they’d simply changed positions. Ultimately, it didn’t matter, since he had no other ideas about d’Artagnan’s possible whereabouts.

 

Crossing the street, he circled around the building to its rear, easily locating the ladder. Eyeing it warily, he pushed aside his misgivings and placed his hands and one booted foot on it, letting out a low sigh when it held his weight. He moved quickly, but carefully up its length, allowing another deep breath of relief to escape him once he’d stepped onto the roof. Moving slowly, he made his way around to the front of the building, locating a man’s form leaning against a chimney. The man’s location offered him an unobstructed view of the grand cathedral, and Athos took a moment to appreciate the sight.

 

Drawing closer, he watched as the man’s face tilted upwards, and he got his first clear look at d’Artagnan’s face. The anguish there made Athos’ heart clench, and he found his feet suddenly moving forward of their own accord.

 

“Stop.” The strangled word halted Athos in his tracks, his desperation to speak with his friend warring with his desire to honor the man’s wishes.

 

“If that’s what you want,” Athos replied, praying he could get the Gascon to at least listen to him. He watched as d’Artagnan’s head turned towards him, and the startled expression there made him momentarily wonder if the young man had been aware of his presence or not. Pushing the thought aside, he said, “But I’d like to talk first.” Indicating the spot next to the Gascon with one hand, he continued, “If you’ll let me?” He watched in relief as d’Artagnan nodded.

 

Moving forward, he stood next to the young man, casting his gaze once more towards the impressive sight across from them. “I believe you may have found one of the best views in the city.” From the corner of his eye, he could see the Gascon’s head moving in agreement. “Porthos has been a bad influence on you,” he stated with a hint of a smile playing across his features.

 

As he’d hoped, d’Artagnan let out a soft huff, which Athos interpreted as laughter. Taking that as a positive sign, he slid down to sit next to the Gascon. He was close enough for their shoulders to touch, and he found himself momentarily holding his breath as he waited to see if his protégé would allow the contact. Seconds passed and d’Artagnan didn’t move, allowing Athos to slowly exhale at the small, but important victory.

 

“What brought you here?” the older man asked, hoping the question was neutral enough that the young man wouldn’t feel threatened.

 

Athos kept his gaze forward but he could feel d’Artagnan shrugging next to him. When it became clear that he wouldn’t be receiving anything more in response, he tried again. “It’s very peaceful here.” Another shrug met his words, and Athos felt a twinge of irritation.

 

“I needed somewhere I could think,” d’Artagnan stated, and the older man withheld his surprise that the Gascon had finally decided to speak. “I love Paris, but sometimes it’s too loud and busy down there to be able to think clearly.”

 

That the young man was talking to him was an encouraging sign, and it prompted Athos to try and steer their conversation closer to the issue they needed to discuss. “Has it helped?” he queried, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “Have you reached any conclusions?”

 

d’Artagnan turned to look at him, but Athos continued looking straight ahead, believing it would be easier for the young man to unburden himself that way. After a moment’s silence, the Gascon cocked his head to one side, answering, “I don’t know yet.” With that, he returned his gaze to the church, leaving Athos wondering how to proceed.

 

Deciding a more direct approach was needed, the older man said, “You’ve already given me a gift, you know.” Immediately, d’Artagnan’s gaze returned, and Athos worked hard to maintain his calm, unconcerned expression.

 

Seconds later, the Gascon stammered, “No…I…that’s wrong. I didn’t even know it was your birthday.” With that, he turned away, and Athos had no trouble imagining the look of distress on his young friend’s face.

 

“Be that as it may, you _did_ give me a gift,” Athos restated. He let his words hang between them, counting on d’Artagnan’s innate curiosity to eventually get the better of him.

 

A minute passed, and then a second, and then the Gascon was speaking again, his tone now inquisitive instead of guilty. “What do you mean by that?”

 

Quelling a surge of satisfaction at his protégé’s question, Athos reminded himself that he’d still need to tread carefully, and he hoped that d’Artagnan would remain patient as he segued into a slightly different, but very related, topic. “You know about my brother, Thomas,” he began. “It was my greatest honor to be his older brother.” His eyes clouded for a moment with memories, the familiar feelings of love and loss mingling together as he spoke.

 

“My roles as Comte, husband, King’s Musketeer – they all pale in comparison that role and the responsibility I most happily embraced,” Athos continued. d’Artagnan listened silently, confused about why his friend was talking about his brother, but caring for the man too much to interrupt. “When Thomas was killed, I nearly went mad with rage, and that my loss was at the hands of my beloved wife merely compounded my sorrow. That led me down a dark and lonely path of solitude and drink, and I can honestly say now that it’s a miracle I survived that time in my life.”

 

“Athos,” the Gascon breathed out. It was apparent that d’Artagnan wanted to offer some words of comfort, but Athos wasn’t done, and he stopped his friend from saying anything more by placing a hand on the young man’s forearm, squeezing it gently before continuing.

 

“I needed get away, to heal,” Athos stated. “And, truth be told, I needed a purpose. I will be forever grateful to Treville for giving me that. But, most of all, I am first and foremost grateful for the clarity that came with time, and allowed me to put into words that which I missed most when I lost my younger brother.” He turned towards d’Artagnan now, locking gazes with the younger man, even as he shifted the grasp that he had on his friend’s arm. Clasping the Gascon’s hand firmly in his, he ignored the slight tug of d’Artagnan’s limb as the other man expressed his confusion and discomfort by trying to break the hold.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos began, his voice low and intense. “The days that you spent between this world and the next, when Aramis could not find it within himself to deceive us as to your chance of survival, no matter how great our need for hope - those days nearly destroyed me,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But then,” he continued, his voice growing stronger, “you started to improve, and I had the audacity to believe that our prayers – _my_ prayers – had been answered. It was as though your life had been given to me, because I’d begged God not to take you, and it is something for which I am eternally grateful.”

 

The Gascon’s mouth had slowly fallen slack, his shock at Athos’ words clear in his expression. Athos couldn’t help but smile at the young man’s reaction. Bringing d’Artagnan’s hand to his chest, he clasped it firmly between both his palms as he explained, “It’s you, d’Artagnan; you are my gift.”

 

“But,” the young man began, still uncertain how to react, even as the smile on Athos’ face broadened.

 

Shaking his head in mock exasperation, Athos finished, “There’s no dearer gift than a brother’s touch.”


	22. Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is what brotherhood felt like, he was certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. Sadly, this one is the second-last, and the last chapter (epilogue) will be posted on Saturday, since Sunday is Christmas Eve.
> 
> Warning for more brotherly moments ahead!

“Oh,” d’Artagnan said. An awkward silence fell over the two men, both growing increasingly more uncomfortable as the period of quiet stretched. The Gascon couldn’t help but be intensely aware of his hand in Athos’; he gently pulled it loose, watching as the older man’s empty hands dropped to his lap. Whatever d’Artagnan was feeling was clearly multiplied tenfold for Athos, if the expression on his friend’s face was anything to go by.

 

The older man’s thoughts were now racing, and he wondered if he owed his young friend an apology for overstepping. He’d been certain that the insightful Gascon would comprehend the meaning behind his words. Further, he’d been relatively confident that d’Artagnan shared his feelings of brotherhood, but the Gascon’s reaction had completely thrown him. Clearing his throat, he prepared to voice his apology, now feeling adrift and uncertain about how to proceed.

 

“d’Artagnan, I’m sorry,” Athos began. “It wasn’t my intention to make you feel uncomfortable, and I have no expectation that you feel as I do.” As the words left his mouth, he was astonished to see a hint of a smile spreading across the Gascon’s face, making him believe that perhaps he hadn’t misread things as badly as he initially thought.

 

“No,” d’Artagnan shook his head. “It is I who need to apologize.” Athos looked ready to interrupt and the Gascon brought a hand up to stop him. “Please, let me do this.” The older man gave a slight nod, giving his friend permission to proceed.

 

“Would you mind,” d’Artagnan asked, motioning towards Notre Dame, and indicating his desire to retake their earlier positions.

 

“Of course,” Athos lowly murmured, uncertain whether the request was a positive or negative sign. As the Gascon settled beside him, with his face turned towards the church, the older man took comfort in the fact that d’Artagnan was once more pressed against his shoulder and arm.

 

“I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier,” d’Artagnan began, composing his thoughts. “It wasn’t Aramis and Porthos’ gift which upset me, but that I’d let you down. You see, this isn’t the first time I’ve looked up to an older brother.”

 

Athos’ eyebrow rose in surprise at the comment, but he kept tight rein of his tongue, forcing himself to continue staring at the spires of the church across from them. For his part, the Gascon knew how hard his friend was working to remain silent and privately thanked him for it.

 

Drawing a slightly deeper breath, the Gascon continued. “I assume you remembered me saying that I sometimes come here to pray for my parents. I can’t imagine any other reason you’d look for me here.” Uncertain if d’Artagnan was seeking a response or not, Athos merely nodded, even as he wondered about the sudden shift in their conversation.

 

Sighing, the young man stated, “That’s not the reason I’m here today.” He lifted his chin higher as if to stare defiantly at the cathedral. “Today, I needed to be closer to my brother.”

 

“Brother?” The word slipped past Athos’ lips before he’d even realized he spoken. Thankfully, d’Artagnan didn’t seem bothered by the interruption and simply proceeded in his explanation.

 

“Alexandre, after our father,” the Gascon said. “He died of pneumonia when I was three.” His expression turned wistful as he admitted, “I don’t really remember much of him. It’s mostly just glimpses and snatches of memories; his warm brown eyes as he looked at me, his hand cradling mine.” He broke off for a moment as the few, scattered recollections came to the forefront of his mind, and he felt the familiar tug of longing and loss that were present whenever he thought of his brother.

 

Letting out another long sigh, he continued, “I remember how I felt more than anything else. How I knew that I was safe when he was with me, that no matter how much I fussed and cried, he always cared for me, and that I wanted to make him proud to be my big brother.” d’Artagnan knew his friend needed to hear this part of his history in order to understand his recent actions, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to share his story.

 

As if sensing his discomfort, Athos’ hand was suddenly back on his forearm, and was a warm, reassuring presence as the older man offered his unspoken support. The act caused the Gascon’s lips to quirk momentarily as he looked down at the light grip on his arm. _This_ was what he’d longed for after his brother had passed, and it was this that he’d feared he’d lost when he’d inadvertently missed Athos’ birthday. As he’d listened to the older man, he’d gone from confusion to shock as his mentor had indicated that d’Artagnan’s survival was his gift. Furthermore, he’d made it sound as though the young man’s presence was the best present he could have received, which had sent a flush of warmth through the Gascon’s body, even as his mind was still processing what he’d heard.

 

There was no doubt that d’Artagnan felt the same, and he was immeasurably grateful for Athos’ friendship. Even more importantly, the older man had bared his heart, which was a rare occurrence, and had stated that d’Artagnan was a brother to him. _Brother_. The word was such a simple one and yet it contained so many layers of meanings: protector, conspirator, allegiance, support. _Family_. It was this last one that meant the most to the Gascon, especially now as he found himself without any close blood relatives.

 

Inhaling deeply, d’Artagnan shook himself from his thoughts, impressed that Athos had simply remained at his side with a hand on his arm, steadfastly waiting from his friend to continue speaking. The realization once more tugged at his lips. Placing his hand atop Athos’, he turned his upper body towards the older man, ready to finish their conversation. “I really don’t remember enough of Alexandre to truly miss him, but as I grew older, I always missed how it felt to have an older brother. It was something I felt I would never experience again, and as I developed friendships with other boys, I was proven correct. Until now.”

 

Squeezing Athos’ hand, he looked meaningfully into the older man’s eyes, seeing the understanding and love there that he imagined would have been in his blood-brother’s expression, had he lived. Athos’ squeezed back, offering a simple nod in reply. A deep sense of calm swept over d’Artagnan, leaving him suddenly feeling inexplicably heavy and tired. Shifting his position slightly, he resettled against the chimney, content to leave Athos’ hand resting on his arm. The older man appeared to feel the same way and made no move to change his position. As the bells chimed, the two friends sat in comfortable silence, watching as the sun set above the spires of Notre Dame. 

* * *

As darkness had fallen, the night air took on a chill, and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but shiver at its touch. Athos had noticed immediately and risen to his feet, pulling the young man after him. The Gascon was grateful for the assistance, shocked at how stiff he’d become from his many hours of sitting. It seemed that his day-long excursion had also drained his recovering body of its energy, and he found himself swaying a little on weak legs. Athos didn’t say anything though, simply putting an arm around his friend’s shoulders as he guided him back to the ladder that would take them down to the street.

 

The older man descended first, keeping one eye on the Gascon in case he faltered. He allowed himself a silent sigh of relief once they were both back on solid ground where he could retake his hold on his protégé as he guided them home. Athos knew that Aramis and Porthos would be back at his apartments by now, and he hoped they would take his absence to mean that he’d found their missing friend. Still, he understood that neither of them would be satisfied until they saw d’Artagnan with their own eyes, so he kept their pace as quick as possible.

 

Athos couldn’t help but feel relieved when they slipped through the door where he lived, noting the number of times that the Gascon was yawning and stumbling over his own feet. Pulling d’Artagnan up the stairs, Athos pushed open the door to his rooms, feeling a rush of warmer air on his face.

 

“d’Artagnan!” Porthos’ voice boomed across the space, the large man spotting them as soon as the door had swung open. Athos gave the Gascon a gentle nudge to encourage him to cross the threshold, while he pulled the door shut after them.

 

The young man was already in good hands, Aramis having descended on him as soon as he’d laid eyes on his former patient. While Athos was comfortable that d’Artagnan was fine, he welcomed the medic’s second opinion and didn’t try to intervene as Aramis led the Gascon to a chair. Porthos, meanwhile, headed straight for the older man, a serious expression now adorning his face. Athos allowed himself to be led back outside, the two men stopping just on the other side of the door.

 

Raising an inquiring eyebrow at the larger man, Athos only had to wait a moment to be enlightened about their sudden departure from the room. “Riout is in Paris,” Porthos announced, keeping his voice low enough so they wouldn’t be overheard by their friends inside.

 

“Have you informed Treville?” Athos asked, his mind already considering the implications of the man’s appearance.

 

“Yes,” the larger man nodded. “But you’re not going to like this. He told us to leave him alone for now.”

 

“Why would he order such a thing?” the former comte asked, a part of his brain already working to provide an answer to his own question.

 

“Because there’s more,” Porthos replied. “He was meeting with Richelieu.”

 

“Are you certain?” Athos’ eyes narrowed suspiciously as he waited for a response.

 

Shrugging, the large man answered, “As certain as we can be without actually seeing his face. The Captain didn’t think that was enough to confront him.”

 

Sighing, Athos pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment against the headache that had suddenly appeared. When he dropped his hand to his side, he replied wearily, “He believes we need more evidence.” Porthos nodded, and the older man went on, “He’s right.” Examining his friend for a second he added, “Treville ordered you not to say anything to me, didn’t he?” The sheepish grin that appeared on Porthos’ face was enough of an answer for Athos to dip his chin in understanding. “He believes that I will confront Richelieu on this matter.”

 

“He’s probably noticed that you’re a bit overprotective when it comes to d’Artagnan,” the larger man replied, still smiling.

 

Athos’ expression turned to one of annoyance, but he didn’t contradict his friend’s statement. “Aramis knows?” It was Porthos’ turn to look irritated, and the older man simply raised a hand in supplication and a silent apology as he said, “Of course, he does. Alright, we keep an eye out for our _friends_ , and d’Artagnan doesn’t go anywhere alone until this is resolved.”

 

“Obviously,” Porthos stated, as though he and Aramis had already agreed to the same. After a moment’s thought, Athos realized they’d probably done exactly that, having planned to share their news with him as soon as he’d returned.

 

His own lips turning up in a smile, Athos said, “Thank you.”

 

Porthos simply grinned back, opening the door with one hand while he guided the older man inside with a hand at his back. Aramis had just finished with d’Artagnan and he straightened from having been bent over to speak to the young man. Athos searched for the medic’s conclusions in his expression and was rewarded with a wide smile, letting him know that the Gascon was fine.

 

“Everything alright in here?” the older man asked, this time observing d’Artagnan as both he and the marksman nodded. Athos felt more tension leak from his body at the answer, recognizing that his friends weren’t only referring to the Gascon’s physical state, but rather his emotional one.

 

As if to lend credence to Athos’ conclusion, d’Artagnan spoke up, “Aramis and I talked, and I understand now.” His gaze shifted to Porthos and he offered the large man a genuine smile, letting him know that he didn’t harbour any ill feelings about Athos’ gift.

 

The large man grinned back, before announcing, “We picked up dinner.” At the mention of food, d’Artagnan’s nose suddenly detected the tantalizing aromas, causing his empty stomach to growl hungrily. Porthos laughed at the sound, prompting Aramis and even Athos to join in. The sound of the merriment washed over d’Artagnan. From his seat at the table, he watched as the others arranged the food and dishes, unaware of the wide grin on his face. _This_ is what brotherhood felt like, he was certain of it.


	23. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grin on his face widened once more.

The four Inseparables stood in varying degrees of attention before Captain Treville. Athos, as usual, managed a look of casual aloofness, his Musketeer uniform unable to completely hide that he came from a noble lineage. A few feet from the older man, Aramis was wearing one of his usual disarming grins as he lounged against one wall. The marksman projected his typical air of optimism along with a certainty that he could charm his way out of almost anything. Porthos was physically the most dangerous of the group, but his expression currently matched the marksman’s, which prompted the Captain to silently compare the large man to a lazy-looking tiger before it decided to suddenly pounce upon its prey.

 

And then there was d’Artagnan. Treville paused for a moment to take in the fresh lines that creased the young man’s face. With his thumbs tucked into his belt and his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his posture was still just as casual as before his brush with death. The Gascon still smiled easily and tended to take people at face value, but now there was a hardness beneath the soft exterior of youth, reflecting the experience he’d garnered with the Musketeers.

 

He’d called them to his office to brief them on their next mission, but there was more that he needed to share. Letting his gaze rest momentarily on Athos, he knew that the man had only grudgingly forgiven him for not sharing the news that d’Artagnan had been in danger. Later, when Aramis and Porthos had brought news of Richelieu’s involvement, he’d once more decided to keep the secret from his lieutenant. Glancing at the unconcerned expression gracing the marksman’s face, Treville reminded himself that he wasn’t all that confident that Aramis and Porthos hadn’t gone against his wishes and shared their discovery with Athos regardless.

 

The former comte cleared his throat, offering the commanding officer a gentle reminder that they were still waiting for him to speak. Meeting Athos’ gaze, Treville offered a slight nod in acknowledgement. “As you’re aware, I have new orders for you,” he began, once more glancing at his lieutenant. “Before we get into that, I have other news to share with you.” He observed Athos’ slight eyebrow lift, but didn’t comment.

 

“Since the training mission, when d’Artagnan was hurt, I’ve continued to investigate.” From the corner of his eye, the Captain could see Athos tensing minutely. “I can now confidently tell you that the perpetrators behind those events are no longer a threat.” He could see that he now had everyone’s attention, Porthos having straightened while Aramis had pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against.

 

“How can you be certain?” Athos asked, his emotions tightly controlled, but giving his words a slight edge that betrayed his lingering fear that d’Artagnan might once more be targeted.

 

Choosing to overlook the somewhat demanding tone in his lieutenant’s voice, Treville replied, “Because everyone involved is dead.”

 

“Dead?” Porthos questioned on behalf of the Inseparables.

 

“But Petit got away,” Aramis chimed in, the recruit’s involvement and subsequent disappearance still rankling him.

 

With a slight frown, the Captain continued, “Yes, they’re dead, _all_ of them.” From the expressions on the men’s faces, it was obvious that he would need to provide more detail before they would believe him. “I received word weeks ago that Petit was killed during a card game.”

 

Porthos snorted, “Serves him right.”

 

“Weeks ago,” the marksman pounced on the officer’s words. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“Because I wasn’t finished my investigation,” the Captain replied, swallowing his sigh of irritation at the frequent interruptions.

 

“What of Riout?” Athos asked, needing to know the traitor’s fate.

 

Treville took a second to rub his forehead, hoping to quell the headache that had appeared with the Inseparables’ arrival. “Also, dead,” he replied. The former comte’s expression signaled his disbelief, prompting the Captain to add, “Look, I know that Riout’s disappearance last time was suspicious, but I honestly believed it was the right thing to do. I’d thought I was giving Riout another chance, and that he might turn his life around without the death of those men hanging over his head.”

 

Shaking his head in regret, he admitted, “Clearly I was wrong, and he was destined for a career of evil. I was able to discover that he became a soldier for hire as soon as he could, and then he jumped at the chance to improve his status when approached by his powerful benefactor. It was my mistake, and one I won’t soon repeat.”

 

“The Cardinal was his patron,” Athos stated, with no hint of a question in his tone.

 

Treville’s gaze jumped to Aramis and Porthos, not at all convinced by their expressions of innocence, but he simply nodded. “Yes, the Cardinal. With his death, I’ve had the opportunity to go through his papers, and I found irrefutable evidence that ties him to Riout, including the fact that Richelieu had the man killed for his failure.”

 

“But, why,” d’Artagnan spoke, overwhelmed by everything he was hearing. From the looks on the others’ faces, the Cardinal’s involvement came as no surprise, but he was stunned by the revelation that the powerful man had attempted to have him killed. “Why me?”

 

Treville’s expression turned compassionate, dreading what he had to say next, but having promised that he would hold nothing back. “You embarrassed him.” At the Gascon’s continued expression of confusion, he went on, “When you beat his champion, effectively winning the tournament between our regiment and the Red Guards, and impressing the King sufficiently to receive your commission.”

 

It seemed that even the Inseparables were stunned by the Cardinal’s reasons, and several long seconds of silence passed until Porthos announced, “The Cuckoo’s Calling.”

 

Narrowing his eyes at the odd phrase, Aramis asked, “What’s that?”

 

“Cuckoo’s Calling,” Porthos repeated, louder this time. “It’s what we used to say in the Court about those who were jealous of what others had. Richelieu was jealous of the Captain,” he motioned towards Treville with his chin, “so he tried to discredit d’Artagnan. But that wouldn’t be enough for a man like him, so he adds murder to the list, wiping away the last trace of his loss to a man who wasn’t even a Musketeer. Cuckoo’s Calling,” he finished.

 

Treville and Athos were nodding, the explanation making sense, while d’Artagnan ran a hand slowly through his hair, an action that they all recognized to represent the feelings of vulnerability he was now experiencing.

 

“To think he called himself a man of God,” Aramis hissed softly, disgusted with Richelieu’s actions.

 

Athos had quietly closed the distance between himself and the Gascon, and now reached an arm around the young man’s shoulders, squeezing gently before letting his arm drop to his side. He knew that d’Artagnan would not appreciate any physical displays of comfort while in the Captain’s presence, but the forlorn look on his protégé’s face had demanded the small act of support. “Our world will be safer now that the Cardinal is dead,” he proclaimed confidently, hoping the others would be swayed by his statement.

 

Seeing several nods of agreement, Treville decided it was time to turn their attention to other things. “Your new orders,” he said as he extended a rolled piece of parchment to Athos. “Whatever details we have available are in there, but you’ll need to depart for our border with Spain with all possible haste.”

 

“And miss our opportunity to pay our respects to the Cardinal?” Porthos queried sarcastically.

 

The Captain’s expression offered a non-verbal reprimand, but nothing more as he continued. “There’s little enough information at this point, but the mission is an important one. Godspeed.” With the unspoken dismissal, the four men turned and exited, pausing at the railing of the balcony that overlooked the practice yard below.

 

“Spain,” Aramis said, the word containing a flurry of questions which none of them had answers to.

 

“So it seems,” Athos replied, the parchment still in one hand as he surveyed the courtyard.

 

“Best get to it then,” Porthos announced, heading down the stairs, with Aramis following a moment later.

 

Athos hesitated at d’Artagnan’s side, examining the young man’s features for any signs that he wasn’t fit to join them. As if sensing the older man’s concern, the Gascon offered a slight smile as he said, “Stop worrying, Athos, I’m fine.” For a split second, the older man considered arguing, but then decided that he’d rather have the young man with him and safe, versus back at the garrison and unprotected.

 

Nodding, he placed his gloved hand over d’Artagnan’s where it rested on the balcony rail. The smile on the Gascon’s face widened at the touch, just as Athos had hoped. A second later, the older man broke contact as he said, “Let’s be off then, before Porthos and Aramis leave without us.”

 

Without a second thought, d’Artagnan found himself following his friend – his brother – who he knew wouldn’t let anything happen to him. The grin on his face widened once more.

 

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read, commented and left kudos on this story, and if you're so inclined, I'd love to hear from you one last time. As promised, the list of AZGirl's prompts are included for you below. Thanks to her for inspiring this fic, and also for being my second set of eyes, on several occasions, to catch my numerous typos. 
> 
> Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates. I wish you all a happy and healthy holiday season, and all the best in 2018.
> 
> AZGirl’s prompts:  
> 1\. Focus on Athos and/or d'Artagnan.  
> 2\. Time of year: spring or summer.  
> 3\. A past meeting between either Athos or Aramis and d'Artagnan when he was a boy, but none of them had realized or remembered until this story.  
> 4\. Secret from d'Artagnan's past.  
> 5\. It's Athos' birthday, but d'Artagnan doesn't know that until the last minute or too late.  
> 6\. Hallucinogenic drug.  
> 7\. Catatonic character  
> 8\. Extra brotherhood-y.  
> 9\. Prefer pre-season 2 setting.  
> 10\. And the difficult one: In honor of Tom Burke's new TV series, Strike, I challenge you to use to use all of the book titles (exactly as listed) the episodes are based on in the text of the story. Bonus points for using all three in one chapter. Extra credit for also using the title of the unpublished book four. Titles (in order; 'A' and 'The' excluded): "Cuckoo's Calling"; "Silkworm"; "Career of Evil"; "Lethal White".

**Author's Note:**

> Given real life's demands, chapters will be posted twice weekly, on Sundays and Wednesdays. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.


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